A Searing Acquaintance
by jancat10
Summary: Not every scar is visible to the naked eye. Fitzwilliam Darcy is a man who hasn't wanted to be known or understood for a very long time; Elizabeth Bennet is a woman intrigued but determined not to care. After all, modern life is too busy to waste time figuring out confusing people and muddled feelings. They'll make progress, usually, with weekly updates on Wednesdays.
1. Chapter 1

**A Searing Acquaintance**

_Not every scar is visible to the naked eye. Fitzwilliam Darcy is a man who hasn't wanted to be known or understood for a very long time; Elizabeth Bennet is a woman intrigued but determined not to care. After all, life is too busy to waste time figuring out confusing people and muddled feelings._

**Chapter 1**

_Sometimes, at the oddest moments, she would remember the feel of the scars on his back. One ran up to his shoulder and he'd tensed as she'd caressed it. They were hard to the touch and hard to forget, and he'd never really explained how he got them. She'd told him about her scar, explained the injury and how it changed her life. But he'd closed his eyes and covered her mouth with his own when she tried to ask him for his story. And she'd lain back and decided it didn't matter, because after tonight, he wouldn't matter and what they were doing here now could be forgotten. Welcomed and savored in the moment, and then forgotten._

_But now, more than half a year later, in one of those rare flashes of total self-awareness, Elizabeth Bennet could acknowledge that she'd never forgotten him, had never truly wanted to. The feel of his hands gently touching her face, and his dark eyes gazing into hers…those were memories she held onto. She pulled out those images on these hot summer days, or when it was raining and her leg ached. She remembered those feelings when she saw a happy couple kissing on the street. And she felt the ache of regret for the words not spoken._

**October**

As much as she appreciated the Industrial Revolution and all the innovations and pleasures its inventions brought to her life, Elizabeth Bennet had never stopped suspecting that escalators were nothing more than a death trap. If you didn't fall down one or get your shoe sucked into the eager stair teeth, you were relying on steel gears and cogs to move you when you should be stretching your own legs and shedding the calories you'd just enjoyed. Escalators, she thought, were a less than innocent factor in America's obesity epidemic. Where was the outrage?

"Yo, Bob! Grab me a dog and a beer!"

Elizabeth grabbed her sister's arm and nodded toward two pear-shaped men in orange sweatshirts, pointy blue hats and striped facepaint. "Be still my heart, Jane. I think we've found the perfect sperm donors."

Her sister smirked. "Oh Lizzy, always on the lookout for a hottie."

Much as the sisters loved going to football games at the University of Meryton—the autumn leaves crunching under foot, the marching band playing tunes in the crisp air, the crowd roaring in unison for the boys on the field—there were just as many drawbacks. Although the school, top-ranked academically as well as in football, could boast one of the country's highest graduation rates for its players, one did have to rub elbows with fans unabashed (and sometimes underdressed) in their team fervor.

"I see no hotties here," muttered their friend, Charlotte. "A veritable sea of orange. I didn't know orange existed on the color palette when this place was founded in 1850."

Elizabeth's retort about the 16th century William of Orange went unspoken as Charlotte grabbed her arm and gasped.

"Wait, hotties alert!" Charlotte cried, as they neared the top of the escalator. "I spoke too soon. Look there." She pointed at two men standing at the top of the escalators, near the elevator bank. Both men were clad in black; only the orange baseball cap atop the head of the grinning blond one gave away which team they were there to root for.

"My," murmured Jane as they neared the end of their ride. "Mind your manners." She reached past Elizabeth and pushed down Charlotte's hand, still pointing at the two men. Then Jane's phone rang, and she grabbed Elizabeth's arm. "Come with me, it's Jessica. I have to take this."

Elizabeth followed her sister and leaned against a pillar, listening to the conversation between the two unfashionable fans.

"My god, Charles," spat out a man dressed more for a jaunt to a mausoleum than a football stadium. "Have you seen how these people are dressed? Why do adults dress up like children to go scream at semi-professional athletes trying to kill one another?"

The blond man rolled his eyes. "They're having fun, letting off steam. Bonding, Darcy. Like us. Cheering for the home team. C'mon, you cheer for the Yankees."

"But they wear black, Charles. Orange is a fucking fashion crime."

_A guy with an English accent roots for the Yankees? Go figure. _Elizabeth wondered.

"You do remember I went to Princeton, right? Our mascot is the Tiger?"

The other man, his hair nearly as dark as his clothes and his brown eyes flashing with disgust, shook his head. "I resent bad taste." The piercing tones of the marching band's brass section filled the air. "Oh god," he muttered. "Thick-ankled tuba players marching in lock-step."

"Geez, lighten up. Let's find our seats."

Elizabeth stared after the pair, less shocked than amused by the sentiments expressed_. Pity that a much-loved American pastime is so offensive to the sensibilities of that British prig. Has he ever been to one of his own country's football games? Talk about a bunch of brawlers._ She looked down at her own outfit. Black jeans, black turtleneck, orange sweatshirt and hair-tie. Not too garish. Perfect for October.

Jane grabbed her hand. "Okay, Jessica said we're in Box 202, in Section 50."

"We're in a box? On the 50-yard line?! Oh my god!" Charlotte squealed.

Jane nodded. "Hurry. I have to pee, and I'd rather use a luxury restroom than deal with the long lines out here. Let's go."

Ten minutes after sinking into the cushioned leather seats in the box, the three women were sipping mimosas and sampling from a platter of flatbreads settled between them. Jane, an insurance executive, was worried she hadn't yet seen their host, nor met the clients he was so eager to please. After a few minutes, she recognized the clients and moved to a seat in the first row, intent on making enough small talk to feel she'd paid back her boss for the box seats. Charlotte, an accountant, was busy scanning and calculating the net worth of the fifteen or so occupants of the box.

Elizabeth, awaiting her sister's return, kept her focus on the game. She'd never had a view quite like this—so clean, so clear, so sheltered from the wind, and with servers at her beck and call. She could get used to this arrangement, she thought, though it was a bit too claustrophobic. Without the roar of the crowd, you could listen in on just about every conversation in the box, even the one in the row behind her featuring two unfortunately familiar voices.

"She's gorgeous, Darce. I'm going to introduce myself."

"Charles, wait. You don't know a thing about her, you don't know if she's with the other firm or –."

"Nope, but I'm going to find out. She's the most beautiful woman in here," his friend sighed. "Look at all that blonde hair. Come with me, it looks like she's with friends. See that brunette in the hoodie?"

"Good god, Bingley. No. Sitting in this sea of orange is bad enough, but you're not going to get me to chat up some frumpy female football fanatic clad head to toe in it. She looks like a bloody pumpkin."

Elizabeth froze in her hoodie. _Pumpkin? Frumpy female football fanatic?_ That sounded even more insulting in his British pompous accent. She turned her head slowly and leveled her sights on the dark-haired man in black. "So alliteration rather than titillation is your game? Pity."

And then she turned away from his shocked face and watched the game. Jane rejoined the group and ordered a second round of mimosas. Mindless of the exchange and focused solely on the lithe blonde, Charles moved over a seat, leaned forward and introduced himself to the three women. Within minutes, he was sitting next to Jane. For the next half-hour, Elizabeth kept up a running commentary with Charlotte on the plays made on the field, only occasionally glancing at her sister smiling and laughing with her new friend. He seemed pleasant and definitely eager to make Jane's acquaintance, unlike his surly friend, who seemed less than pleased with the altered seating arrangements. Elizabeth sipped her drink and pondered the unsmiling man. _Trapped and abandoned in a sea of orange. Poor man. My hoodie might be orange, but my jeans are as black as his mood._

Darcy nursed his gin and tonic and averted his eyes from the happy sparking going on in the seats in front of him. Charles never failed expectations; everywhere they went he made friends, usually of the preferred, pretty blonde female variety. He'd smile, laugh at their jokes, praise their fashion sense or chuckle at the silly, one-of-a-kind story every woman had about her college roommate, her annoying boss, her first trip to Paris, or her favorite celebrity chef.

This one, Jane, seemed no different. Perhaps a bit quieter and more contained than most of the women Charles met. Definitely more demure than Darcy would have thought he'd see at a college football game. Certainly, she wasn't loud and angry like that brunette she came with. He glanced over at the women he'd yet to officially meet; the one with the thick ponytail was giggling with the other brunette, the one with the rather large nose and an unfortunate pixie haircut. _Her girlfriend, perhaps? _That would explain her hostility towards him and Charles. Maybe she was angry because she was annoyed to see so-called stereotypical male behavior: Man sees three women and naturally gravitates toward and hits on the blonde.

It was obvious that she was quite intent on the game and from the odds and ends of conversation he could overhear, she seemed to be quite knowledgeable about the arcane rules and strategies involved.

"He's going to roll to his left and throw a fake and run it in."

"Are you crazy, Liz? Moorehead had knee surgery, he can't run," Charlotte responded.

"Wait for it, Char." Elizabeth leaned forward in her seat—she'd quickly realized one did not stand or yell in skyboxes. Mr. Dark and Menacing had already shot her an annoyed look when she leapt up to cheer a half-field kick return.

The quarterback's 15-yard end-zone run to tie the game brought the crowd, even the pampered bums in the leather seats, to their feet. _Well, not every pampered bum,_ Elizabeth noted. The sulking one was leaning backing and looking at…her. _What the hell?_

Charlotte had noticed it too. "Mr. Anti-Orange doesn't seem like much of a football fan," she observed quietly. "But he does seem to find you rather interesting."

Elizabeth huffed. "He's just following my informed commentary on the three-man backfield sweep. It looks like he's never been to a game before. I mean, who doesn't know to wear the team's colors?"

Charlotte turned her head and appraised Darcy. "Hmm, true, not a spot of orange on his wildly expensive outerwear. That's a $700 barn coat from Barney's," she insisted to Elizabeth's disbelieving expression.

"I'll check his socks," Elizabeth said, a mischievous smile on her lips. "I'll leave his underwear to you."

She leaned back and turned around in her seat. "Excuse me, sir. We're doing a quick survey over here and wondered if you could tell us what color socks you're wearing."

Darcy stared at her. "Um, excuse me?" _Did she ask me what I think she asked me?_ He wasn't clear on the question, and the mocking expression in her eyes had him on guard.

"Your socks, sir. This is a UMeryton football game, and the wearing of the orange is practically _de rigeur_," she explained. "Clothing requirements are on page 17 of your game program."

Darcy slowly shook his head. "I'm required to wear orange? There are rules?" he huffed. "Figures."

He glanced at Bingley, who was on his phone but had turned his attention to the conversation. "Shhh, Caroline. Darcy is being interrogated by the sock police. I'll call you later."

"I don't have a program," Darcy said coolly. "Show me the rules, please."

Elizabeth smirked. "Certainly, my colleague will find those for you." She nodded at a bemused Charlotte. "In the meantime, would you please satisfy our curiosity so we can complete the survey?"

Darcy stared at her. "You want to see my socks? Seriously?"

"Oh yessir. Unless you'd prefer to show me your underwear."

Darcy's eyes drifted over to see Charles laughing while his new blonde friend was sending the brunettes a disapproving look.

He leaned closer to Elizabeth and gestured at his pants leg. "Be my guest."

Elizabeth bent over the back of her seat and put a finger on the cuff of his black slacks. _Seriously, who wears wide-wale corduroys to a football game? I bet he calls jeans dungarees._ She looked up and met his eyes, which stared at her, intently awaiting her move. _He calls that a poker face?_

She curled her finger under the cuff and slowly lifted the thick fabric.

"A drumroll, please!" Charles cried.

"Shut it, Charles," Darcy muttered.

Elizabeth peeked at his socks and dropped the pant leg.

"Well, Lizzy? Do we have a rule breaker here?" Charlotte watched expectantly, along with Charles, Jane and a few other skybox habitués who'd caught wind of the challenge.

Elizabeth glanced at her audience and then up at her subject. Although his eyes maintained their cool detachment, his erstwhile pale cheeks were now reddened and his hands were gripping his chair. She turned around in her seat and announced that "Mr. Noir" had in fact complied with campus rules and her investigation was over.

"Really?" said Charles. He looked dubiously at Darcy.

"Yup, there's a narrow band of orange which makes him legal," Elizabeth affirmed with a laugh. "I think that in celebration of our uniform consistency, I'll get us all a platter of nachos."

"It's on me," Darcy said, standing up and striding away to the exit.

The small group watched him leave and turned their attention back to the game.

"Thanks, Mr. Noir," Elizabeth murmured. Charlotte poked her in the ribs.

Charles leaned over and called out. "Hey Elizabeth, forgive me for not introducing you more properly. My friend's name is not Noir, it's Darcy. Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Darcy Fitzwilliam Darcy? What kind of name is that?"

Charles laughed. "No, just Fitzwilliam Darcy. It's a mouthful, I know."

Charlotte looked over at Charles, who was leaning a little closer to Jane than the norm on first acquaintance. "It's a bit fluffy. But it would explain his accent. He's British?"

The man looked between them and nodded. "You noticed, eh? Half. He's—."

"A New Yorker," muttered Darcy, sliding into his seat. "Nachos, mini burgers and a vegetable platter have been ordered."

By the time the game ended, the platters were emptied but the contact lists on two cell phones had added new numbers. Two weeks later, both numbers would be programmed onto the other's speed dials.

~~%~~

Elizabeth was happy that Jane had met such a nice man. Her sister had endured too many "nice" guys who didn't appreciate her sweet nature, but as the next few weeks flew by, Charles didn't seem likely to fit that pattern. In fact, his appearance in Jane's life seemed to be the catalyst for the cutting of the sisterly bond. Elizabeth and Jane used to have dinner at least once a week, and often shared weekend plans, but for Jane, it was now all Charles, all the time. Although perhaps a tad annoyed—not jealous, Elizabeth had her own boyfriend, kinda—she was missing her sister. Daily texts and brief phone calls were not enough.

After more than two weeks without even a glimpse of Jane, Elizabeth jumped at the chance to have dinner with the new couple. "It's not formal or anything, Lizzy," said Jane. "Bring Brian. Charles' sisters might come along, maybe some other friends. We'll have a table for eight, just in case."

Elizabeth debated whether or not she wanted to invite Brian along. They'd been dating for a few months, but their schedules mostly kept them apart. So did their interests, if she was honest with herself. He was happy ensconced in his lab, testing adhesion and permutation qualities for an aerodynamic metallurgic study. Or something like that; she wasn't all that intrigued by his work and found it difficult to listen when he and his colleagues started comparing notes.

She was reasonably happy with her own work as a client liaison at Phillips/Hill. One of UM's trustees had taken Elizabeth under his wing after her soccer career had sputtered, along with her scholarship. She started on the lowest possible rung as a paid intern, and gone on to learn the ins and outs of the marketing business. She'd had the opportunity to meet interesting people, and the firm had paid for her masters program. Although she was getting a bit restless, Elizabeth felt she owed Phillips/Hill a few years of hard work for their investment in her. After all, getting a masters' degree in creative writing wasn't exactly the norm at a marketing agency, and she'd heard some grumblings about favoritism.

Now, she had only two months left of car payments, and she felt secure enough to be mapping out her 10-year plan. She'd never considered if Brian would be part of that plan. He was a handy friend and polite company at these events. But she hadn't missed him, and hadn't picked up the phone to call or text him in more than a week. Had he been trying to reach her? It didn't matter. Jane, forever concerned about her little sister's love life, texted Brian to make sure he got them both to Marciano's on time. Elizabeth stared at his message: "Pick u up 7 Friday." She grimaced. _Thanks Jane. _Now she had two long-overdue conversations ahead of her.

~~%~~

Conversation had rarely been more stilted and uncomfortable than during the two hours Elizabeth spent at Marciano's. The eight seats Jane had reserved filled up, and besides her sister, Brian and Charles, Elizabeth knew there wasn't a person there she ever wanted to see again. Charles' sisters, Caroline and Louisa, were a matched set; fraternal twins who looked nothing alike but finished each other's sentences. Two redheads—one painfully thin with well-styled carroty hair, and the other, chubby-cheeked with vibrant red curls. One draped in jewelry, yet ringless on her left hand. The other wearing a giant wedding ring; her thick-bodied husband kept one hand wrapped around his wife and the other wrapped around a glass of bourbon. It was like Jackie and Jill, Elizabeth mused. Or two Chuckie dolls. Somehow Brian was making small talk with Louisa's husband, Herb Hurst. After Herb had introduced himself as the friendly neighborhood drug dealer, he'd laughed loudly and said he actually worked in sales for Big Pharma. Elizabeth had smiled tightly and thanked the gods that she wasn't the evening's designated driver. She would need plenty of wine.

The thin redhead stared at Elizabeth. "Are you the sock police?"

Elizabeth stifled a smile. _Someone's been telling tales._ "Volunteer member of the campus sock police, at your service."

Herb and Charles burst into laughter.

"I heard about you, checking Darcy's socks! You humiliated him," Caroline huffed. "How dare you make him the butt of your joke!"

"Joke? Oh, I don't think Mr. Darcy minded so much. And he made the grade. He had on his team colors."

Caroline rolled her eyes. "Well, of course he did. Darcy is no fool. He always follows the rules. In fact," she said, her eyes resting on Elizabeth's weathered leather jacket, "he usually sets the standards by which others live."

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Elizabeth said, sipping her wine. _I'm sure he does._

The arrival of The Great Man Himself ended further discussion of all things orange and unpleasant. Darcy was dismissively apologetic for his lateness and, Elizabeth noted, unchanged in appearance from their earlier encounter. Still dressed head-to- toe in black, still grim-faced, and still annoyed at any show of friendliness. He was cool, even to the effusive greetings laid upon him by his great defender, Caroline.

Elizabeth said hello and introduced him to Brian. After a polite inquiry or two and a little effort made toward small talk with Jane, he disappeared behind his menu. After that, he appeared disinterested in everything but Charles' jokes, whatever was on his phone screen, and the plate of mushroom agnolotti placed in front of him. She went off to the restroom to rid her mind of him—and to blot out the oil from the garlic bread Brian had dropped on her lap.

Darcy was insufferable, she thought. What a frightening couple he and Carroty Caroline would make. Or had made? Elizabeth watched them as she made her way back to the table. While Jane and Charles had bent their heads together all night, tasting each other's dinners and talking quietly, Caroline and Darcy were the exact opposite. She leaned toward him and he leaned away. He waved off her offering of drippy green salad and studiously averted his eyes from hers. If something had been there between them, it was over. And Darcy was best friends with her brother? _Awkward_. Elizabeth slipped back into her seat and took a sip of wine, giggling as she drank. Hmm, his leather jacket wasn't distressed. It was rich and buttery soft. Elizabeth tried to imagine how many baby cows had sacrificed their hides for that fine piece of fashionable outerwear. Poor babies.

Elizabeth had nice legs, Darcy observed. A former athlete, perhaps. That would help explain her aggression. _Pity. All that anger and wit in one woman and her boyfriend is a meek lab rat who drops food on her?_ The couple's imbalance made no sense to him. He sipped the surprisingly good wine and watched the interaction across the table. Hurst was his usual garrulous self. Louisa seemed to have determined Jane was suitable company, but Caroline—ever quick to seal her first impressions—was operating at full flare. Elizabeth was giggling into her wine glass. Interesting; no one else was laughing or even paying notice. Her hair was thick and wavy, he noticed, quite a contrast to Caroline and Louisa. The twins would make quite a perfect set at one of those football games. He smiled. _Have to see if Charles noticed that too._ Suddenly he heard a familiar ringtone, one that rarely brought good news. He jumped up from the table and left the room.

"What is it, Mrs. Reynolds?"

Elizabeth watched him stalk off. _He goes from smirking to storming out of here in less than sixty seconds. What a jerk._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thought I should post this chapter before Wednesday...now I'm caught up at both sites where I'm posting. Thanks for the nice reviews. And FYI: Darcy is 28, Elizabeth is 24.**

**Chapter 2**

Jane rarely asked a favor, so it was difficult to refuse her the following Wednesday when she begged Elizabeth to join her at Charles' house in the Hamptons. "I barely know his sisters, and they're coming on Sunday. Please come up for the weekend, and be my backup? You can bring Brian."

Elizabeth hemmed and hawed. Brian, her now ex-boyfriend. She hadn't exactly told Jane that bit of news. When he'd driven her home from Marciano's on Friday night, she'd told him she needed a break. She'd hoped to let him down gently, but checking on whether the garlic bread incident had anything to do with her decision, he'd agreed so quickly to breaking up that she was left feeling annoyed. What was his problem, anyway? What was_ her_ problem, come to think of it? Why had she never felt a real spark with a nice man like Brian? Comfortable was nice but a little sizzle would be better. A lot better.

Jane's weekend offer promised comfort, not to mention a cozy bed, beautiful countryside and walking paths. And the leaves were starting to change color, so…. Elizabeth agreed and caught the 8 a.m. train on Saturday. She was surprised not to find Jane or Charles waiting for her at the station among the lineup of black BMWs, Mercedes, Range Rovers and Lexus SUVs. After spying the taxi stand, she walked down the row of gleaming cars, staring at her phone screen. Her phone battery was dying, and she hoped it had enough power to find the address she'd tapped into it last night.

"Miss Bennet? Elizabeth Bennet!"

A clipped English voice broke her concentration and she stumbled. _No way._ She turned around slowly and met the eyes of Mr. Noir. Er, Darcy. She couldn't remember his first name other than it was very long and rather antiquated. _Ferdinand?_

"Elizabeth? I'm here to pick you up." He stood there, in jeans and a thick black turtleneck sweater, smoldering at her in his expensive Saturday wear. "Do you have any other bags?" he asked, gesturing at her weekender.

"Um no." She shook her head and began walking toward him_. I can't believe they sent him. I can't believe he was willing to pick me up. _ "Why are you here? What happened to Jane and Charles?"

He took her bag and tossed it in the trunk of a black BMW. "Well, they're likely still having their morning coffee at the house. I was driving up this morning, and Charles called and asked if I could pick you up here." He paused and watched her staring at his car. "It doesn't bite."

"Do you?" Elizabeth quickly retorted.

His eyes widened. "Not since I was three or four. Or so I'm told." He opened her car door. "The house is only about 15 minutes away."

The first few minutes passed by quietly save for the quiet tones of Django Reinhardt's jazz guitar playing on the impressive stereo system. Elizabeth glanced over at her driver. "Thank you for picking me up."

"You're welcome. I figured I owe you. I never thanked you for your sock subterfuge." He glanced at her and then back at the curving road. "Actually, I've never owned an article of orange clothing."

"Not even a pumpkin costume?" she asked. "Oh yeah, Brits don't do Halloween. Sorry."

"So, why did you do it? Say that I was wearing orange?"

Elizabeth turned and watched him navigate around some construction signs. He hadn't shaved this morning, but his fingernails looked manicured. "Wait, are you telling me those socks didn't have any orange in them? Hmm, it was a narrow stripe. Might have been the elastic," she said lightly. "An honest mistake."

Darcy slowed to stop at a red light and turned to look at her, a bemused expression on his face.

"OK, it didn't seem fair to out you with everybody watching," she explained. "What would you know about wearing team colors? Or care, anyway, about a college's traditions?"

He nodded, and noting the green light, shifted gears and accelerated. "Fair enough. Thank you."

They made slow time behind a pickup truck filled with boxes. "You're not going to pass this guy? The road is clear."

"There's a curve up ahead and really, we'll only save a minute or two if I pass."

Elizabeth slumped in her seat. "Wow, you're patient. And here I thought you were a New Yorker. Whatever."

She saw him lift his eyes to the rearview mirror. "OK, girl? We're almost there."

Elizabeth whirled around in her seat and glimpsed a dog curled up on a blanket draped across the backseat. "Hey girl," she said. "Friend of yours?" she asked Darcy.

"Something like that, yes. This is um, Princess Coconut." He cleared his throat. "Coco, for short."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. _Princess Coconut?_ "She's a cutie. A border collie?"

"More or less, yes."

"Does she do all your biting for you?"

He grimaced. "Hardly. She's quite easygoing."

Elizabeth leaned back toward her, straining against the seatbelt. "So I can pet her?"

"Sure," Darcy replied slowly. "Um. Just please don't feed her anything or let her go into the woods."

She looked up from the dog's soulful brown eyes and regarded Darcy in the mirror.

"Dog rules? You're a strict one."

"Well, yes."

"Here we are," he added, pulling into a long driveway and up to a flagstone house. Elizabeth eyed the porch swing, the tennis court, and the barn which sat behind the house.

"Lovely," she whispered. "Oh, this will do just fine."

After hugs and greetings and a huge, delicious brunch, Elizabeth went exploring the grounds. The outbuildings had been beautifully maintained and she found herself at home in the barn, which had a few horses, two goats, a handful of chickens and a dozen or so half-domesticated cats. Delighted to be among small creatures, Elizabeth found the milk can full of kibble and replenished their scattered dishes. She sat on a hay bale and watched them eat. The smallest one, a glossy black male, came and curled up in her lap. She determined that she would ask Charles about table scraps for the brood.

After five minutes or so, she heard claws clicking across the barn's wood floor and the cats scattered, disappearing into the hayloft. The kitten in Elizabeth's lap shrank back and sank its claws into her denim-clad legs. She looked around and saw Coco approaching, followed by her owner, clad in riding boots and carrying a saddle.

He was grimly watching her. "You took care of the cats," he said flatly.

"Uh-huh," she replied. "Is that a problem?"

He shook his head. "No. But don't give them table scraps. The smell lures in wildlife. The raccoons here are bonkers."

"Are you sure you're not just saving the good stuff for Princess Coconut?" she asked.

"Are you insane? I would never feed her human food."

Elizabeth nodded. "Okay then. Well, enjoy. I'm going exploring."

She headed down the slope and toward a small creek. How pretty, she thought, determining she'd return later with her camera. In the distance she heard mooing and decided to discover how truly bucolic this place was. Perhaps she could find a good place for a run. About an hour later, as she returned to the house, Elizabeth heard Jane calling her name.

She found her sister sitting on the porch steps petting Coco and watching Charles and Darcy, now in sneakers, kicking around a soccer ball. The ball rolled toward her and Charles cried out, "Over here, Lizzy! You're on my team."

"Two Yanks versus one Brit seems fair," she smirked, kicking it over to Charles.

Darcy jogged toward Charles and feinted a steal, but Charles quickly lobbed it to Elizabeth. Darcy bounded over to her and leaned in, attempting to kick it out from her.

"Charles, help!" she cried. "He thinks we're playing rugby!"

Darcy pulled away as Jane ran over, calling, "I'm stealing Charles for my team!" Lizzy turned to look at her sister and Jane easily kicked away the ball and began chasing it over to Charles. "C'mon babe! The goal is this way!"

"Crap, Darcy, go protect our…" Elizabeth glanced ahead and tried to figure out just where and what the goal was. "…Our woodpile!"

Darcy ran to the other end of the field and moved about, shadowing Jane. She quickly kicked it over to Charles. The game went on for another ten minutes, until Jane and Charles fell to the ground and pleaded exhaustion.

Their opponents declared victory and discreetly turned away from the makeout session now going on among the leaves.

Darcy walked over to the porch and sat down next to his dog. He glanced at Elizabeth as she walked toward him. "Rugby? I didn't touch you."

"True. It was more of a football move."

He looked at her, confused.

"American football, not British football. I do know the difference, Oxford."

"You do seem to know quite a bit about sports," he agreed.

"Once a tomboy, always a tomboy," she replied, shaking her head. "You know how to kick a ball too. Did you have a good ride today?"

She knelt down and began gently kneading the dog's shoulder muscles. Coco groaned and lay supine, rolling over and showing Elizabeth her furry gray chest. Elizabeth smiled and glanced over at Darcy, noting his serious expression as he watched the dog.

He looked up and met Elizabeth's eyes, then nodded. "Yes, Athena is a fine horse, but a bit skittish. She thinks every twig is a snake."

_Athena?_ Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Did she buck you off?"

"No, though she tried. After the third bit of dastardly elm branch crossed our path, we headed back here. Charles needs to bring in a trainer."

"You mean a horse whisperer?" Elizabeth smirked and ran her fingertips over the dog's muzzle. "Coco is beautiful. And worthy of her royal name," she added solemnly.

"She likes you," he replied, ignoring her joke. "You're quite good with animals."

"What's not to like? You seem to like them too. My friend Charlotte says checking off the "Animal Lover" box is a must on dating profiles." She cringed when she heard the words leave her mouth. _Did I really just bring up dating profiles? To this guy?_

Darcy bit back a smirk. "Well, I'd imagine there is some magic algorithm or some such thing."

Elizabeth glanced over at her sister, firmly ensconced on Charles' lap and covered in leaves.

"Or maybe just a healthy swallow of Love Potion No. 9," she said, rising and heading for the door. "Time to wash up. Would anybody like a drink?" she called, loud enough for all to hear.

Ten minutes later, she and Jane were sitting on the front porch swing, sipping Irish coffee.

"You looked good out there playing, Lizzy. I hope you don't mind that I told Charles you used to play in college."

Elizabeth groaned. "_Used to play_ is right. Not even two seasons and my career ended in a blaze of glory."

Jane frowned. "Oh Lizzy. I know breaking your leg was awful, but at least you never had a concussion."

"True, I have all my brains. Plus a leg that aches when it rains and as a bonus, sets off security alarms," Elizabeth laughed. "So, tell me about your love life. Things seem good."

"Charles is sweet. He made sure to bring my favorite wine and he picked up these amazing scones for breakfast tomorrow."

Elizabeth smiled. "So the man has some serious shopping skills. What are his other good points?"

"Lizzy! He's just so wonderful." Jane's voice dropped. "And he's such a good kisser. Good everything."

Elizabeth couldn't remember ever hearing Jane voice such strong feelings. "That's great, Jane. I'm happy for you. You deserve a nice guy. And I have to tell you, he has great taste in real estate."

Jane beamed. "I know! It's so beautiful. Fitzwilliam helped him find it." She looked at Elizabeth's raised skeptical expression. "How are you two getting along?"

_Ah, I knew it started with an F_. "He's polite. I like his car. It was nice he picked me up. I should thank Charles for asking him to."

"Lizzy, Charles didn't ask him. He mentioned you were coming up and Fitzwilliam offered to get you at the station."

"Oh." _Oh._

She stretched out her legs, wincing as she flexed the calf muscles. _That'll hurt tomorrow. _

"But what's the deal with his dog? _Princess Coconut_? What's up with that? And he told me not to feed her scraps or throw sticks for her or let her go in the woods." She laughed. "I've never had anyone give me a `Don't Do' list for their dog."

Jane shrugged. "I don't know. Charles asked me if I was allergic because he wanted Fitz—I mean Darcy, I think everyone calls him that—to get out of the city and come up here, and he won't leave the dog."

Elizabeth nodded and considered her words. "We all have our little phobias. I bet he didn't share his toys, either."

"Well, there _are_ ticks here. And she is pretty old. Charles says that dog is the only thing Darcy really cares about. He's given up trying to fix him up with anyone."

Jane sipped her coffee as Elizabeth rolled her eyes. _Rich, handsome and no wife or girlfriend? There's a story there._

"By the way, Lizzy, where's Brian?"

~~%~~

After a snack and a brief nap, Elizabeth changed into her hiking boots and headed out with her camera. She wanted to capture the waning autumn light coming over the hills and reflecting through the leaves around the creek. She clambered up and down the creek bed, snapping photos, until she slipped on a bit of moss, lost her balance and tumbled a few feet. She caught hold of a tree branch and steadied herself.

Elizabeth lowered herself onto the rock. Ah, the life of a former athlete. She knew she'd overdone it, playing soccer and taking two walks without stretching first. Her entire leg was throbbing. Usually it was just the ankle. When it was damp, the titanium pins in her right tibia would throb. At other times, it was her shins; whoever said shin splints were a short-term issue? Once in a great while, her knee would ache from that almost-but-not-quite ACL tear nearly two years ago. Her leg almost never hurt all over as it did now. Elizabeth reached in her pocket for her zip-pack. Years ago, her Eagle Scout boyfriend had given it to her for Valentine's Day. He'd thought the case, containing a whistle, a pillbox, collapsible water container and water purification tablets, compass, flashlight, sunblock and bug repellent, showed his deep feelings for her. Elizabeth was less sure of the romance conveyed by a hot-pink pleather survival kit, but five years later, she was still carrying it around. She wasn't sure what had happened to the eager young man she'd broken up with a month after Valentine's Day, but his gift had indeed been one that kept on giving.

She pulled out the pill box. No ibuprofen, just Imodium and salt tablets. Oh, and a Vicodin. On a scale of 1-10, the pain was at least an 8. That merited using up the last prescription painkiller in her possession. Elizabeth swallowed the pill and took a swig from her water bottle. As soon as the medication kicked in, she'd feel good enough to head back to the house. In addition to the deep, comfortable couch she envisioned occupying, the sprawling home was full of expensive rustic furniture, hand-braided rugs and polished copper pots no one had ever used to cook. So beautiful, so out of her reach in this lifetime.

"Er, hello."

Elizabeth looked up into the shadowy autumnal gloom settling in. Oh. It was him.

"Hello."

Darcy looked around and squinted into the dusk. "Was it a good sunset?"

She shook her head. "I wouldn't know." She gestured at the horizon. "I'm facing east."

He nodded solemnly. "Oh, of course. Are you heading back to the house?"

Elizabeth stared up at him. "In a bit."

He looked around. "Do you know your way back? It's getting rather dark and this is your first visit here. I'd be happy to—."

"I'm fine. You can go ahead."

"Are you—?"

"Yes."

Darcy nodded. "All right then. Please be careful." He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and handed it to her. "You might need this."

"No thanks. I've got a flashlight app on my phone."

He took it back and nodded. "All right, then."

Then he turned and began walking across the field. Elizabeth knew the house was straight ahead, through the field and down a small hill, across the stream and up through the woods. Easy-peasey. The pain had subsided, so she knew it was best to get moving. She stood up slowly. "Ow! Shit!" She bent over.

Elizabeth felt him before she heard his voice. His arms supporting her, his hand lifting her chin so he could see her face.

"Are you all right? What happened?"

Elizabeth met his eyes and grimaced. "I torqued a muscle in my ankle. Old injury."

She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure I can walk."

He put his arm around her waist, and said "Lean on me. I'll take you back to the house."

"But…"

"You don't have another option unless you have a cane in that kit," he said, pointing at the hot pink case. She saw his smirk but missed the gentleness in his teasing.

"I left my shillelagh at home," she muttered. "If you can find me a stick to lean on, I'll be fine."

"No, we're doing fine this way. You all right?"

Elizabeth felt the evening chill settling in around them, and what felt like cold drizzle starting to rain down. She suddenly realized she was grateful he was with her. "Yeah, I'm fine. We can go faster."

She could feel the pill start to take effect and the pain and stiffness lessened as they moved forward across the field. He grasped her a little more tightly as they walked down the hill.

"Hey cowboy, don't squeeze too tight."

"Cowboy? So you're both a college football fan and a country music aficionado?" He shook his head. "You are such an American."

"Excuse me, Oxford, I'll have you know the only country music I own is Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison. I'd rather listen to Bach and stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah, stuff. Bands you've probably never heard of. You seem like a jazz guy or maybe a Wagner man."

"Do I?" It was too dark and they were moving too quickly for her to see the expression of amused disbelief on his face.

"Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit…" she sang. "Oh mighty warrior of great fighting stock…"*

A booming crack of thunder filled the late afternoon sky.

Darcy picked her up. "I think you're delirious with pain. We need to hurry up."

"Put me down," she cried, wriggling out of his arms and landing with a thud. "Ow! Dammit!" She stared up at him accusingly.

He reached for her arm. "Fine, lean on me. Please. We need to get you inside."

Elizabeth leaned heavily on his arm and they hurried across the lawn. Rain started pouring moments before they made their way into the house. Darcy sat her on a huge sofa in the family room and knelt in front of her. "May I?" He lifted her foot and began untying her shoe.

"Oh. Um, no I can do it."

She fumbled a bit but finally wrestled off her shoes and damp sweater while Darcy built a fire. He stood up, removed his jacket and looked at her. "May I get you something for the pain? Ice? Pills?"

"Um, yes. Both, please. Well, no. I took pills. A pill." Elizabeth shivered, and he immediately pulled a thick afghan off another sofa and draped it across her shoulders. Then he walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured them each a small glass of brandy.

"Here, this will warm you up. I can make some tea."

Elizabeth recoiled from the smell but quickly drank it down. "Oh wow," she exclaimed. "My uncle Leo smells just like that tastes."

Darcy nodded. "Why don't you lie down and elevate your foot?" He grabbed a pillow and looked at her expectantly.

She stared at him. She hated to admit that he was right. Again. And that he looked so damn handsome and smug about it. The fire looked so appealing, so she lay back against the armrest on the sofa and stretched out her legs. He began arranging pillows around her. She shifted and pulled her legs up on the pile of cushions. "Where's Jane? Jane?!"

"They were driving off when I left. I'll be right back with the ice."

Elizabeth leaned over and rolled up her pant leg. The ankle was swelling. Lovely, the bruise would match her scar. She pulled her phone from her pocket and clicked on the screen. Two voicemails and three texts from Jane.

"Lizzy—Don't hate me! Charles just surprised me with tickets for James Taylor! You don't mind, do you? I had no idea. Where are you, anyway?"

_Thrown over for another boyfriend_. Elizabeth gritted her teeth listening to her sister's bubbly, joyful voice.

"Please try to get along with Darcy! Watch a movie. Charles has all the Bond movies and all the Jason Bourne and tons of comedies! Just pretend you never saw his Adam Sandler collection."

And the texts: _Where are you? Text me! Tons of food in the fridge!_

"Well?" Darcy looked at her impatiently, a bottle of ibuprofen in one hand and a lumpy tea towel in the other.

"I believe we've been thrown over for a night with Sweet Baby James."

"Excuse me?

"Charles surprised Jane with tickets to her other dream man, James Taylor. We're on our own."

"Oh. Ohhh."

Elizabeth bent over her phone and sent Jane a quick, vaguely threatening text. _You owe me, big time._

Darcy gently laid the towel-covered ice bag on her ankle. His eyes lingered on the long scar that decorated her leg from shin to anklebone.

"Old injury?"

She nodded. "Broke it playing soccer in college. Two pins and one surgery later, it was all good. Except for any chance to play professional soccer."

He just stared at her.

"I'm kidding. I wasn't good enough to go pro."

"I'm sorry. That's awful," he said morosely. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then shook his head. "You're still a very good player. Certainly had me."

Elizabeth smiled and rolled her eyes. After canvassing her about her appetite, Darcy headed to the kitchen, soon returning with tea and a plate of crackers, cheese and fruit. "There's a lasagne in the oven."

"Did you preheat?

He stared at her, looking confused.

"Never mind. How about some wine?"

He looked at her doubtfully. "Will it help your foot?"

"A sip o' the grape helps everything," she replied, smirking. Elizabeth sipped her tea and watched him open a bottle of merlot. "So where did you get all these Nurse Darcy skills?"

He stopped twisting the corkscrew and stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, you're good at this, you're very nurturing. Like you've done this a lot." She smiled up at him. "And you're shockingly domestic. I'd never have guessed it."

"Slicing cheese and sticking a casserole in the oven is the extent of my culinary talents, I'm afraid," he replied.

He handed her a glass of wine and placed his own on the table near the tray before sitting down in an overstuffed chair across from her.

"How about you? Do you cook?" he asked.

"A bit. Soups and stir-fry, mostly. I prefer baking. My stepmother mostly kept us out of the kitchen."

He raised his eyebrows. "So you're not a chef or a professional footballer. Um, may I ask what it is you do?"

"Marketing and PR. For now, anyway. I'm just finishing my MFA at Columbia."

"Really?"

"Hard to believe, hmm?" Elizabeth leveled an annoyed look at him.

"That's not what I meant…." he stammered.

"Did my undergrad at UM. We all did, or are. That's what my family could afford, I had a scholarship to play soccer, and I figured I should save for grad school."

"So you didn't wish to go there? To Meryton?" He picked up a cracker and stared at it.

She watched him and started laughing. "What, are you phobic about all things orange?" She gestured to the orange cheddar on the plate.

Darcy flushed and smiled. "Um, no, actually." He picked up a slice.

"Can you keep a secret? I despise orange," she said solemnly. "I had some amazing professors at UM. I learned a lot. But I really wanted to leave town."

He nodded. "But now you are here, working and studying. Full-time?"

"Best as I'm able," she said, shifting her leg and deciding to change the topic. He was staring at her far too intently.

"And you're an Oxford man?"

"Um, no. Cambridge. Harvard."

"Do you work with Charles?"

"No."

She considered him. "Do you work?"

"Of course."

Elizabeth sighed and stroked her chin dramatically. "Let's see. You always wear black, you speak as little as possible, you ask pointed questions. I'm guessing CIA, MI-5 or perhaps, cat burglar."

He furrowed his brow and bit back a smile.

"Fine, Keep your secrets." Elizabeth sipped her wine. "So, it's Fitzwilliam, right? That's an amazing name, you know. Which came first—the name or the accent?"

He looked at her.

"Oh, come on. It's like the name of a subdivision or a sofa at Pottery Barn. `Please note the extra firm cushions on The Fitzwilliam.'"

Darcy chuckled. _Wow, he can laugh?_

"So, do you have extra-firm cushions? Do you carry extra padding?" she smirked at him and waggled her eyebrows. "Or are your springs sprung?"

"God, you are a loose cannon."

"Yup. Always sinking ships." Elizabeth drained her wine glass and burrowed down further into the sofa. "Seriously though, are you a New Yorker or a Londoner?"

"I've been a New Yorker for the last five years but in the States for a decade. After I finished school, I came here to run some business interests."

"Do tell."

"My mother's family owns some companies here."

"She's American?"

"Um. She was, yes."

"Oh." _Was? Oh_. "So you are a citizen of the world astride the pond."

"Barring that unfortunate imagery, yes, I suppose so."

Elizabeth felt the spreading warmth of the alcohol and the lovely effects of the Vicodin. She snuggled deeper under her blanket and gazed at Darcy. He still hadn't shaved. Grubbiness became him. She watched him place another log on the fire and turn back to face her.

"You look good with a beard."

"What?"

"So your father is the British one? The one who dubbed you Ferdinand?"

He smirked. "Fortunately for me, neither of my parents was inclined to name their son after a bull or a bear or a rabbit. It's Fitzwilliam, remember?" He bent over and adjusted her ice pack, then sat down on the floor, and leaned back against the sofa.

"Oh, sorry. I'm a bit fuzzy," she yawned. "Well, Peter is a nice name for a rabbit or a boy," she insisted. "Your father?"

"He passed away a few years ago."

"Oh. When your mother did?"

"Er. No. That was longer ago."

"When you were a boy?" she asked sadly.

"I was sixteen."

"You're an orphan."

Darcy was playing with a loose thread on his sweater and avoiding her curious stare. "I'm 28, hardly an orphan."

"What about your brothers and sisters?"

"You ask a lot of questions. Are you always this inquisitive?"

"You intrigue me. You've just told me you've lost your parents, and I'm really sorry to hear that and sorry if I was rude for asking."

He turned away from her, drew his knees up and leaned on them, staring into the flames. "My father died of pancreatic cancer five years ago. It was… fast and painful. I think he was happy to let go."

She reached out and put her hand on his arm. "Because it was so awful?"

He sighed. "Not as painful as the previous decade. He…drank. He never got over the accident."

"That's how your mother died? A car accident?"

He nodded and mumbled a few words.

Elizabeth clenched his arm a little tighter. _Oh god. _ "Come here."

He turned around, eyed her soft expression and shook his head. "Um, why?"

"I'm not going to test your cushion for firmness, I need your help."

Darcy immediately scooted closer to her. "What's wrong?"

"I can't feel my leg. I think it fell asleep. Can you check it?"

He looked befuddled, and on the verge of asking her a question, but instead nodded his head and put his hand under the covers. "Can you feel this?

"Yes."

"This?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then. I think you'll live."

"Thanks, Nurse Darcy." Elizabeth met his eyes. They lacked the steely glint she'd grown used to seeing there; now they were soft, and very dark. She lifted her hand up to his cheek.

"Oh my god, you're so bristly."

"I forgot to pack a razor."

She ran her fingers across the two-day-old growth and watched him close his eyes. Elizabeth pulled his face closer to her own and gave him a brief kiss. He leaned in and she kissed him again, pulling him down, closer to her.

He followed willingly.

Notes:

*Kill the Wabbit, a line sung by Elmer Fudd in Looney Tunes' brilliant "What's Opera, Doc?"


	3. Chapter 3

_We left off with a kiss. Sorry I left you hanging... and thanks for the wonderful reviews._

**Chapter 3**

It was dark when Elizabeth woke up to the sound of her phone buzzing. Her eyes adjusted gradually to the dim light edging in from the kitchen and the low flames in the fireplace. Her phone buzzed again. _Jane!_ She pulled it from under the blanket and looked at the screen. The first message, now two hours old, read: _Car died. Waiting for the tow truck. Don't wait up. _The newest one was simple:_ We're at a motel. Home first thing in the a.m. XO_

_What happened?_ Elizabeth sat up on the sofa, and feeling a twinge in her leg, slid back down among the cushions. She sensed she wasn't alone and looked around. Darcy's dog was curled up in front of the fireplace, so she knew he must be close by. She looked down and found him there, next to her, asleep on the floor, glasses on his nose, and a Kindle sitting atop on his chest. The reader rose and fell as he took deep breaths.

Elizabeth rolled onto her side, reached over and gently took the Kindle. She peered closely at his face; it was different, softer than before, framed by messy hair and tortoiseshell frames. She thought she should remove the glasses in case he rolled over. As she leaned down, her fingers brushed his forehead. Darcy's eyes blinked open and, slowly adapting to the dim light, settled on her.

"Hi."

"Hi. You fell asleep reading."

"Did I?"

"You and Princess Coconut kept me company. I think I fell asleep while we were talking or something."

He pulled off his glasses and nodded. "Or something."

Elizabeth blushed. "I kissed you, didn't I?"

He nodded again and sat up, turning and facing her.

"Sorry. Vicodin makes me a bit loose."

"It's fine," he replied. "You were funny. I didn't mind."

"No?" _I was funny? Cripes._

"No."

"Well, the show goes on. The Vicodin lasts eight hours, and I took it about four hours ago."

"You read the chemists' labels." He gave her a crooked smile.

"I speak from experience. So," she said softly and slightly mortified. "Did I fall asleep right after I kissed you?"

"More or less."

"I'm an idiot," she murmured.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I didn't take it personally. It was nice."

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. "You don't say." She leaned in and gently pressed her lips to his. He moaned and lifted his hand to cup her cheek.

His lips were firm and slightly chapped, but softened under her gentle probing. Elizabeth's hand drifted to his neck, and she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. She tentatively ran her tongue across his lips and into his mouth.

Darcy groaned, but suddenly pulled away, grasping her shoulder. "Are you sure?" he asked, panting. "Your leg?" She nodded and ran her hand down his arm, tugging him up onto the sofa. "Jane and Charles aren't coming back tonight," she murmured. She wiggled further back into the sofa and pulled back the covers, making room for him

"What? Why?" Darcy replied, only half-listening. He moved onto the sofa, lying on his side, his legs carefully avoiding hers. He sank into her with another deep kiss.

Elizabeth shifted, sliding her hands up under his sweater, through the fine hair on his chest, and running her thumb over his nipple. His decision was made; he sighed and fell on top of her, ravaging her with his mouth. Darcy was a good kisser, she realized. He suckled at her bottom lip and used his tongue to slowly deepen her excitement. She tickled the rim of his ear, softly outlining the edge with her thumb while raking the fingers of her other hand up and down his back. She gasped when she felt his fingers weaving through her hair; her kisses became more urgent. After a few moments, he pulled away and began kissing her neck, running his tongue up and into her ear, nuzzling her nape with his nose. She needed more of him.

"Why are you always in black? I want to see your skin," Elizabeth said in a low voice. She succeeded in pulling up Darcy's sweater, trapping his arms. He sat up on his knees and yanked it over his head, then hesitated.

"Where exactly are Jane and Charles?" he asked. Seeing her beneath him, her hair splayed out, her lips bruised, the shadows from the moonlight dancing across her face, made him feel wild.

"It's raining. Car trouble. Cute motel."

Darcy nodded and tossed his sweater onto a chair. He pulled her up, lifting her sweater and t-shirt over her head. Elizabeth didn't make it easy; she kept her hands busy on his chest, fingering his flat brown nipples, and eliciting a moan and a deep hard kiss from the man hovering above her.

His whiskers scraped her cheeks. He gently cupped her breast through her sports bra, and started pushing down a strap; when the elastic proved resistant, he paused and stared at it, bewildered. Elizabeth saw his confusion, and unsnapped the concealed front clasp. As it fell away his eyes were drawn to her breasts, in the dark looking like moonlit orbs. He reached out one hand, cupping her breast and softly rolling his thumb across its swell. "Beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful…." She reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth down to hers. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and rolled her to her side. "Your leg?" he mumbled.

"It's fine, it's fine." His lips teased hers apart and she again felt the tip of his tongue on hers. Their mouths created their own rhythm while he gently thumbed her nipple, rolling it and eliciting deep moans from her. Elizabeth ran one hand through his hair; the other glided across his shoulder blade and traveled lower, until she felt more than skin and muscle. There were welts and scars, and scar tissue. He slowed his assault on her breasts and raised himself.

"Are you okay? What happened?" she asked.

Darcy just stared at her, breathing heavily.

"You have scars too?"

"The accident," he mumbled. His eyes were wary.

Elizabeth paused, trying to remember what he'd said earlier about an accident, but her head was a bit fuzzy.

"Were you there too...?"

He looked at her, his face a mixture of lust and confusion. "Please…not now," he said roughly, drawing closer and dropping kisses on her neck. His tongue made a lazy path to her breasts and he cupped one while sucking and licking the other one.

"Oh, god…" she moaned, pulling him closer. Darcy made an art of it, applying pressure with his tongue and pulling and teasing her into his mouth. She'd never known her breasts to be so sensitive. He moved one hand lower, cupping her bottom and pulling her closer. She arched her back as heat flared between her legs and she could feel his hard arousal on her thigh.

Elizabeth opened her eyes to see him and in the dim light caught sight of his shoulder. Thick scars, some bearing stitch markings, crisscrossed it; his left arm too bore faded marks. _Don't think…_

She ran her hand down his chest and reached between them to stroke the hard swelling there. He moaned, and suddenly froze. "Uh….no, wait…." he whispered.

She couldn't. She started fumbling with his zipper.

"Wait, wait. I don't have any protection."

"I'm on the pill, it's fine."

"No," he said firmly. "It's not." Darcy pulled back and rolled away from her. "Oh god," he sighed shakily. "This is wrong. We can't do this."

_What?!_ Elizabeth sat up, stunned and embarrassed, and pulled a pillow over herself to hide her chest. "No," she said, "bad idea. Big mistake."

"No…it could be, though." Darcy sat up and put his head in his hands and sighed. He didn't notice Elizabeth sit up on her elbows nor sense her anxiety, but saw that she was looking around for her sweater. He picked it up from the floor, handed it to her and pulled on his own. He said nothing, but suddenly wrinkled his nose and jumped up. "Dammit."

He ran off to the kitchen and Elizabeth could hear the clatter of drawers being flung open and the oven door being slammed. She gingerly stood up and adjusted her clothing and began picking up pillows and cushions. A minute later, Darcy returned.

"Good thing I set it to auto-timed cook," he said. "The lasagne's baked hard as a rock but at least we didn't burn the house down." He bit his lip and looked at the floor.

"Good catch." She nodded. "They say timing is everything."

"Elizabeth—."

"Better clean this all up," she said briskly. Elizabeth picked up the cashmere throws and blankets from the floor and sofa and began folding them as he watched.

"Are you all right? How is your leg?"

"Better. Thanks for helping me. I really appreciate it." She finished up and leaned over to pick up her boots. "I'm heading to bed. Can you get the rest of it?" she asked, gesturing at the water-filled plastic bag, dishes and glasses.

Darcy nodded. "Do you need some help getting there?"

"No thanks. I feel about 90% better," she said.

"Are you sure? We should, um, talk—."

"Nope," she said crisply. "You were smart for both of us."

"I wasn't trying to be smart, but—." Darcy's words faltered as he watched her slowly walk out of the room, waiting to see if she'd limp. He fell onto the sofa and leaned his head back. His head was a muddle. He'd been a gentleman, hadn't he? He hadn't surrendered to his basest impulses.

She'd taken a prescription painkiller. He'd poured her wine. She was woozy, he couldn't take advantage of her. At least, not any more advantage than he already had, he thought, scowling. Besides, she had a boyfriend, and he had no condoms. She'd regret it in the morning. It would have been fine, fantastic, under better circumstances. He was sure of it. But what of her boyfriend? Even if she was feeling a bit off from the painkillers and wine, how could she come here and come on to him when she had a boyfriend?

_Fuck_. She was so beautiful, lying there in the firelight. Teasing him and making him talk. He'd gotten lightheaded just talking to her, and that was even before all the blood had pooled in his groin.

He hadn't wanted a woman so much in months. Years. Maybe ever. Why did he have to start _thinking_ in the middle of everything? Because it was the right thing to do? Because _she_ wasn't thinking? He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He could still taste her on his lips. Now what? _What was I thinking?_

~~%~~

_What was I thinking?_ Elizabeth wondered. _I let a little wine and a Vicodin go to my head and I jumped him? Him?!_ She looked around the rustic bedroom and her stomach lurched at the room's sweet domesticity. She pulled off her clothes, threw on her flannel pajamas and brushed her teeth. The pain in her leg had dulled, and had been replaced by a throbbing ache of regret and unfulfilled need. She felt stupid and base, and however polite the man had been about it, he'd been clear that he didn't want what she had offered him. She was not the kind of girl who did one-night stands or hook-ups; she was the dullest, straightest girl at UM. She'd attacked a wealthy, handsome man as though he was a piece of meat and she was a starving peasant, and he'd pushed her away. How humiliating. He'd reverted back to the cold angry man she'd met weeks ago at the football game. Hours earlier, she'd seen the look of horror on his face when she reminded him she'd gone to a state college. _Not Ivy League_. And last night, she'd seen his look of disbelief that she was getting her master's at Columbia. He'd looked past her social inferiority just long enough—until cold reality hit him. She preferred Nurse Darcy, not some cold fish worried about getting an STD from her. Elizabeth pulled the covers up over her head and sank deeply into the feather pillows. She was asleep within seconds.

~~%~~

Breakfast was a lesson in avoidance; Darcy was up early and out riding when Elizabeth grabbed a bagel and a bottle of juice and headed out for a walk, fortuitously, in the opposite direction.

Both were absent when the Hursts and Caroline arrived. One complained of hunger, another whined about foot cramps, and the third wheel was focused on discovering the whereabouts of Charles and his best friend. Caroline's heels could be heard clicking across the expansive wood floors as she called her brother's name.

Elizabeth, leaning over and staring into the dizzying stacks of fat-free yogurts and organic smoothies in one of the custom built-in refrigerated drawers, ducked down even lower and slowly closed the drawer. If she stayed crouched down, she'd be safe behind the enormous granite-topped island. She heard the kitchen door open. _Damn, how low can I go? _she thought, amusing herself with the double meaning of her words. Suddenly she noticed a tiny label on the drawer:_ Caroline's Food_. She started to snicker. Then she heard Him.

"C'mon, girl." Darcy, just back from a walk with Coco, froze in the doorway when Caroline's eyes fell upon him.

"Darcy, thank god. It's so quiet here I was sure we'd walked into some horrible slasher movie and you were all dead in your beds." Caroline walked quickly toward him but stopped when she saw the muddy-pawed dog. She glanced down at her calfskin boots and adjusted her winter-white pashmina. "I keep telling Charles we need a puppy footbath in the mudroom."

"My fault. I'll find an old rag or something."

"Oh, Darcy. Don't be silly. We don't have_ rags_ here. Take these," she said, thrusting a wad of paper towels at him. "Let me go unpack a few things and let's meet up in the living room. You can fill me in on just what my brother is doing with Jane," she said in an exaggerated whisper. "He's out of his head over her and we've got to do something...She lives in New Jersey, for god's sake."

"Yes, I know, Caroline. It's not Manhattan." Elizabeth could hear his disgust.

"Nothing is, darling." Caroline lowered her voice. "And she's dragging him back to that godforsaken state college she went to for another football game. Pretty soon, she'll have him wearing orange sweaters with a giant M on them.

"Don't give me that look," she hissed. "That sister of hers will probably make sure all of us do too. And it's not as if you enjoyed your previous ordeal at that stadium." Caroline snorted and clattered away in her inappropriate footwear.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and clutched the drawer handle. Slowly, she stood up and glanced at Darcy, still standing near the door, holding the leash and the paper towels. His eyes widened when he saw her.

"Um, good morning," he said slowly.

"Hmm." She eyed him carefully and turned back to the counter. She leaned over, pulled open the drawer and pulled out a peach yogurt.

"I brought you coffee earlier," he said. "You didn't answer your door."

"Oh, I'm a heavy sleeper. Or maybe I was in the shower," she lied.

"I see. How's your leg?"

"Fine. Thank you for your help last night."

Elizabeth pulled open drawers until she found the flatware. She grabbed a spoon and started eating her yogurt. She hoped he'd go away, but Darcy lingered, watching her, until the dog whined and he recalled the need to go clean up her muddy trail.

Elizabeth watched him walk away and then glanced at the clock. She'd spent the hours since dawn embarrassed and angry, but for her sister's sake, she wanted to rein in her feelings and hold her tongue. She wouldn't have to see him again after today, and she could last till mid-afternoon.

During brunch, her resolve to leave as soon as politely practical only hardened. Jane and Charles were tired, giddy and nearly oblivious to everyone around them. They'd had spent the night in a tiny roadside motel cabin, in bunk beds, which made for endless giggling and recitals of summer camp stories. The new arrivals were less than pleasant company. Herb was aggravated by the mud splattering his brand-new Audi, Louisa was annoyed she'd forgotten her Xanax, and Caroline was irritated that Darcy wouldn't join her in ignoring the Bennet girls. Perhaps, Elizabeth thought, he was collecting more data on them; it certainly seemed that he was far too intent on staring at her.

Jane, swallowing a bite of the fresh-baked bread they'd bought at the motel owner's adjacent bakery, smiled at her sister. "Lizzy, I'm going to stay another day or two, okay? After last night, I'd really like to relax today and enjoy the house more tomorrow. Can you stay, too?" Her sisterly stare conveyed more than the stated question; it was a plea for support in the face of the twins' arrival.

_Geez, Janey!_ "Nope. Gotta get back. Big project."

"But…"

"And I like the train, no problem." _Liar!_

Darcy cleared his throat and quietly said, "I'm heading back this afternoon if you'd like a ride."

"No thank you. I have a roundtrip ticket," she said. "And I find the train so relaxing." _Since when do I lie all the time?_

"Do you take public transit to your work?" Caroline asked in a brittle voice. "Don't you own a car?"

"Yes, I do, Caroline," Elizabeth replied. "But I lent my car to a friend so he could impress his girlfriend's parents with a six-year-old SUV instead of his motorcycle, and it was nice to get some reading done on the train. I like my car, but relying on it all the time is expensive, not to mention bad for my carbon footprint."

"Your what?" Caroline looked horrified.

Elizabeth smirked. "Oh…you know. My carbon footprint. Like knock-off Jimmy Choos."

Bingley laughed out loud, but Darcy smothered his chuckle in his napkin. Jane sent her sister a "behave" look, and pouted that they wouldn't have more time together.

~~%~~

Darcy went searching for Elizabeth right after brunch. She hadn't looked at him during the entire meal, had ignored his attempts at conversation, and he was confused. Mad too. Why was she angry at him? Was she embarrassed? That wasn't his fault. Was she feeling guilty because of the boyfriend? Again—not his fault.

He just wanted to talk to Elizabeth, to seek out her feelings about what had happened. He knew that the smart thing was to avoid her, but he couldn't just walk away. Not yet. He would put her out of his mind tomorrow. He'd resolved _that_ much in the wee hours, when he'd realized just how close he'd come to losing himself in the moment. A living room sofa in someone else's house wasn't the place for sex, and as sharp and witty as Elizabeth appeared to be, she'd put him in an altogether uncomfortable situation. Or maybe he'd let her put him in it. The latter option was one he wasn't sure bore further exploration; whatever Darcy was, he wasn't vulnerable to women, especially tipsy, sharp-tongued ones. Especially one who kissed as well as she did. Anyway, he didn't want to dwell on the details. It hardly mattered who was more at fault, but it was only proper that he maintain cordiality, and display his manners, to her. And perhaps buy her a proper dinner. Or at least give her a ride home. Get some closure. It was all a bit confusing. He hated being confused.

He found her in the barn, sitting on a bale of hay. The black kitten was curled up in her lap.

"Are you taking that one home with you?" Darcy asked quietly.

"What?" She looked up at him, surprised as much by his question as by his appearance.

"The kitten. Black cats have a hard time finding homes. Same with black dogs. People can't see their faces. They prefer lighter fur." _Shite, man. Ramble on much?_

"Uh, I wasn't—. I don't know. I wasn't planning on it." Elizabeth stared at him as though he had two heads.

"I don't think you can, if you take the train. Take the kitten, I mean. Amtrak wouldn't allow it."

"Well then, I have no worries. You don't either," she mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Darcy took a deep breath and stepped closer to her. "Elizabeth, I wanted to talk to you. I couldn't find you this morning, and it's been a bit hectic here…."

Elizabeth shook her head. "There's nothing to talk about. Like I said, no worries."

With no other haybales close at hand, Darcy knelt down in front of Elizabeth and gripped the hayloft ladder with his left hand for balance. He sought her eyes but she kept them focused on the kitten. "I'm not worried," he said. "I'm just—. Look, about what happened, I don't do that. I don't casually sleep around."

She finally looked at him. "What happened between us was wrong on so many levels, and there are too many cheap excuses for it," she replied in an even voice. "Drugs, drink, abandonment, pain, heartache…. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to remember it. I want to forget it ever happened. Okay?"

"Excuse me?"

"We just made out. It's not like we had sex, or a mind meld or something. It was a lapse in judgment."

Darcy's eyes widened. _A lapse in judgment?_ Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been that. "That's it, then? Move on and forget it?"

She nodded and leaned over, putting the kitten on the barn floor.

"Honestly, I can barely remember most of it."

_She can't remember it?_ "Fine," he said, closing his eyes and nodding.

"Fine," she replied, and went out the door.

Except it wasn't fine at all.


	4. Chapter 4

_Are we all still fine? Well, it's time to meet the Bennets! D&E spend a bit less time together in this chapter but perhaps there is still some insight to be had about their feelings for one each other and for other, far less important things (like the Bennets). And thanks to you readers, and you wonderful reviewers, so enjoying my little story._

**Chapter 4**

"Dammit. Sara! Why are these boxes here? They were supposed to be shipped to the recipients, not to me."

Darcy's executive assistant gulped. "I'm sorry, Mr. Darcy. I-I must have misunderstood. I thought I'd sent them all to the right places." She bent over her computer and pulled up the account. Darcy began checking the mailing labels. "It looks as though the de Bourghs' gifts were sent correctly, to their place in Rosings. And the Matlocks and the Fitzwilliams and the Staffords and the Watsons…."

Darcy stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. "Apparently, only the Bingleys' and the Hursts' gifts are here." He sighed.

"Mr. Darcy, I thought you were spending the holidays with them, like last year? When you went skiing?" Sara sputtered. "I mean, I know that's no excuse but I guess I was confused."

Darcy looked at his assistant. She was biting her lip, a worried expression on her face, which completely spoiled the cheery intention of her red Christmas sweater and silver-bell earrings. He was screwed. It wasn't her fault. Well, actually it was completely her fault, but it wasn't the end of the world. And he was no Ebenezer Scrooge. It just meant he'd have to drop off the gifts himself. Today. On Christmas Eve. The office was closing down at noon, giving the staff a four-and-a-half day holiday weekend. He'd have to handle this himself and drive to Bingley's place.

Before she'd left for her sister's house in Vermont, Mrs. Reynolds had stocked up the refrigerator, and left him various reminders urging him to get out of the house and kiss someone on New Year's Eve. He knew she'd be almost as nauseated as he if his lips ever touched any part of Caroline Bingley, so he'd ensure it was a quick stop at the Bingleys' home. Very quick. In and out.

"Sir?"

Darcy gave Sara a tight smile. "Don't worry about it, Sara," he lied. "I've got to stop by Bingley's place anyway."

"Are you certain?" she replied, nervously twisting her blonde hair. "I'd be happy to…to figure it out. Mr. Bingley is such a nice man."

Darcy nodded._ And you, like every other woman of my acquaintance, would like to know him even better. Too bad he's taken._

"I've got it covered, Sara. Go finish your own shopping. And have a wonderful Christmas." _Someone has to_. A thought came to him suddenly.

"I hope you found your gift….on your desk?"

She gave him a wide smile. "It's wrapped beautifully, sir. And thank you for remembering my mother. I hope you don't mind that she made you some more baklava."

"I'll make sure to share it this time. I liked it a little too much last year." He smiled back at her. "Now, head off. You have family waiting."

Darcy headed into his office. He picked up the holiday-themed Tupperware and a few cards from his desk, placed them in the shopping bag Sara had filled with the stray gifts, and sank into his leather chair. He glanced down at the dog bed behind him. Coco was in the middle of a dog dream, her paws flexing, her gray muzzle quivering. He smiled, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The long holiday weekend with his aunts and uncles and cousins would be exhausting.

He knew Charles was still seeing Jane Bennet. Hell, after barely two months of dating, she was practically living with his best friend. It came so easily to Charles. See a girl, buy her a drink and fall in love. There was always a girl, always a date to be had. The man was never lonely, never alone. Darcy wasn't sure Bingley even _knew_ how to be by himself, to sit in a room and think or listen to music or read or anything. He always kept himself so busy. He was not a solitary man. _Unlike me. _He pushed away that unwelcome thought.

Fitzwilliam Darcy had always compared romance to the baseball games his mother had taught him to love. Three strikes and you're out. Bingley knew how to swing and connect with women; he got on base, he made a date, every time. But for himself, Darcy always knew by the third date, by the third conversation, or by the third _anything_, whether he could or should invest any more of himself, his time and emotions, in a woman. He had relationships, but they always were short-lived. His life, on paper, might look like that of a playboy or man about town, but very few of those women decorating his arm had ever had him in their bed. And none had been in his. He envied Bingley's ease even as he knew he could never live that life. Nor would he have given Jane Bennet a second look.

But her sister? He hadn't expected to give her a second thought. But he had. And a third thought, and a fourth. He'd had a handful of conversations with Elizabeth Bennet. He'd spent most of a night with her, sleeping, talking, kissing. He couldn't forget the kissing. He had a hard time not thinking about it. He'd played soccer with her, cooked with her, driven with her. She'd been sweet with Coco. And though he tried not to admit it, she didn't have any of the normal strikes against her. She wasn't shallow, didn't seem obsessed by her looks or her clothes, she was pretty and funny and smart. All right, _very_ pretty and_ very_ funny and _very_ smart. He'd seen the thick paperback copy of Dos Passos' _U.S.A._ sticking out of her bag. That was interesting. She was normal and read important novels. He didn't meet many of those kinds of women.

For the first time in a very long while, he wanted the game to go on. He wanted to keep the conversation going, to keep their interaction going. But he couldn't. She'd made it clear that what had happened between them was a mistake. He'd felt that way himself, once he'd had a little time to think. And had taken a cold shower.

He'd told her things he almost never spoke of, about his parents, about Georgie, about the accident. He was an idiot for letting himself slip, for _feeling_ something for her. There was no possibility he could risk more with a woman who'd made it clear that that night meant nothing to her—less than nothing since she didn't seem to remember much of it. It meant something to him, and it would mean something to that boyfriend_. Right_.._ .there was a strike—she cheats on her boyfriend. And another one—she's forgetful, and careless about mixing drugs and alcohol. A fucking headcase. And finally, strike three—she was part of that orange-wearing, state college football factory. Enough said. Move on_. Even if Charles was going to splash in the shallows, he would not. Especially if it took hip-waders.

And maybe Charles had gone beyond the shallows, maybe he was in deep. He'd had been unavailable for just about anything since October. _Since Jane. The angel._ Darcy sighed. He knew he was being unfair. She really was a very nice, very genuine person. He pulled out his phone and texted Charles. _Are you at home? Have to stop by on the way to Matlock_. The response, when it arrived a few minutes later, put him right back in a foul mood. _Fuck. Queens? On Christmas Eve? Great, at least it was on the way to East Hampton. Sort of, if one likes a two-hour drive._

After two hours driving through a snowstorm and ten minutes yelling at GoogleMaps for its inability to find a Forest Hills subdivision called Longbourn, Darcy finally arrived at his destination. He pulled over to the curb and eyed the two-story Dutch Colonial. A faded plastic Santa Claus was plopped in the center of the front yard. A dozen or so smiling penguins lined the walkway, red ribbons wound around the front porch columns, and lights hung haphazardly from the gutters, glowing in the mid-day gloom. Lovely. Now he definitely felt the Christmas spirit.

It only got better as he neared the front door. A giant plastic wreath, bedecked with shiny rubberized berries and pinecones—which seemed authentic—greeted him. He could hear loud voices and laughter inside. _Was that shrieking?_ He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

The door swung open within seconds. A pale, sullen teenager swept her eyes up and down him, and then squinted at his car. "You're not my Chinese food."

Another girl suddenly filled the doorway, fixing her heavily made-up eyes on the bulging shopping bag in Darcy's hand. "Oh my God. Are those for us?" He was sure her loud, high-pitched Queens accent had cracked the crystal on his watch.

Another voice, deeper, louder and even more heavily accented, filled the air. "Lydia! Mary! Get back in here and clean up your mess!"

"In a second, Ma!"

He clung tightly to the bag's handle as the two girls leaned forward and stared inside the bulging bag. The one desiring Chinese food looked at him dolefully. "Are you here for Jane too?" She sighed and walked away.

"Jane!"

Relief quickly arrived. "Darcy! What have you been up to? C'mon in here." Charles greeted his friend and pulled him by the elbow into the foyer. He smiled at the overstuffed shopping bag in Darcy's hand. "Look everyone, Santa is here!"

Jane smiled. "Hi Fitzwilliam. I'm so glad to see you. Please let me take your coat."

Darcy shook his head. "Hello, Jane. Er, I can't stay. I'm expected elsewhere. I, um, left the car running. The dog is asleep inside." He looked around the cozy living room; it was full of oversized furniture, a huge Christmas tree, and an upright piano cluttered with Christmas figurines. "You have a lovely home."

"Thank you. It's actually my parents' home. You met my sisters, Lydia and Mary?"

_Elizabeth is from Queens?_

"Oh c'mon, Darce," Charles cried. "Go get Coconut and bring her in. Stay awhile. The girls are making cookies."

Although nodding to acknowledge the warm aroma filling his senses, Darcy demurred. "I just need to drop off a few things. There was a –."

Suddenly he noticed Elizabeth walking toward them, her hair pulled up, wearing a baker's apron.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

"Hello, Darcy." She gave him a tight smile. "How have you been?"

"Fine, thank you. And yourself?"

"Fine. Working. Wrapping. Baking."

Charles stared between the two of them, his eyebrows raised. "Oh for goodness' sake, Lizzy. Tell him your big news."

Darcy's eyes suddenly focused on a figure lounging in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Elizabeth. He was smiling at her. Possessively._ Great. Another boyfriend?_

"Oh, um. I finished my master's program," Elizabeth said.

"Congratulations. That's fantastic," he replied. _So who's the guy?_ "Sorry, what was your field of study?"

"Creative writing." She withstood his silent, impenetrable gaze, waiting for a follow-up question. None came. He stood transfixed by the dark sparkling dare in her eyes, heedless of any ensuing conversation.

Bingley laughed. "Creative writing…Miss Modest here is doing a book, Darce."

Lydia snorted. "Is it a bustier-ripping romance novel? Or a shades of gray rip-off? I hear people write those on the Internet all the time," she tittered.

"I'm not writing it on the Internet, Lydia." Elizabeth said flatly.

"But it _is_ a love story, isn't it, Liz?" Charles said.

"A love story? Something like that." she said, smiling enigmatically. "I think my cookies are ready. Merry Christmas, Darcy." She turned away and headed toward the kitchen. The hulk followed.

Darcy shook his head. _Love story? What?_ He stared after them until he realized Jane was smiling at him. _Did she ever not smile?_ "Lizzy is making some of her amazing cherry-chip sugar cookies. Are you sure you can't stay?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you, I really should be going. I just stopped by to deliver these to Charles," he said, gesturing to the oversized shopping bag by the front door. "There was a shipping mix-up at the office."

All eyes turned to the bulging bag, shiny foils and ribbon sticking out of the top.

"Sweet, Darce." Suddenly Charles froze. "Dammit, I sent yours to the Matlocks. That was right, right? You're heading there?"

"Every year. Though you never need to—."

"Nor you, buddy. You sure you can't stay?" At Darcy's demurral, Charles offered to walk him to his car, asserting he wanted to see his favorite dog. He threw on his coat and followed Darcy outside.

"Queens, Charles? Seriously?"

"Hey it's on your way, right?" Charles ignored Darcy's glare.

"I didn't realize Jane was from here."

Charles chuckled. "Why, no accents? She and Elizabeth didn't grow up here. Their father moved them here when he remarried. They were teenagers."

"But the younger ones?"

"Stepsisters. Born and bred here," Charles replied.

"Hmm, divorce?" Darcy asked quietly.

"Yes. Sylvia—Jane's and Elizabeth's mom—is a singer," Charles said.

"Really? Professionally?"

"In a theme park in Missouri," Charles replied reluctantly. "Jane says she's quite good."

_Indeed. How bloody mortifying. _ Darcy shuddered. "Oh. Sorry I asked."

They reached the still-running Range Rover. "I'm glad to see you, Darcy. It's been awhile."

Darcy tilted his head and gave Charles a wry look. "You've been busy, my friend."

The other man broke into a huge grin. "Yeah. God, Jane is amazing, just wonderful. You have to get to know her better. She's the real thing."

"I do, hmm? All right." Darcy nodded but he couldn't erase the image of a garishly costumed amusement park performer from his head. _The real thing? _he thought._ So many absolutely stomach-turning possibilities._

"Great. Maybe the four of us could get together after Christmas?"

"Please, Charles. I've told you to never again put me in that situation with Caroline."

Charles started laughing. "Not my sister! Jane's sister, Elizabeth. She's great too, isn't she?"

Darcy stared past his friend and nodded. "Yes, great. But I don't think that's a good idea."

"Oh, are you still holding that sock search against her? C'mon, Lizzy's not looking for a date either. And you two seemed to get along well at Netherfield. Made quite a soccer team, I thought."

Charles suddenly laughed. "And we left you two home alone that night when it stormed. I never asked, what did you two do? Oh, let me guess—Scrabble? Or did you read Shakespeare aloud by candlelight?" He chuckled. "Honestly, I should apologize to Lizzy, leaving her home alone with you and your books and your boring old Bach."

"While you were off mooning to your easy-listening music, we made do. Talked a bit about music, our families… That's about it," Darcy said, looking down at his feet and frowning.

"Really? That's good," Charles said in a surprised but serious voice. "I was kidding about the Bach, you know. Lizzy is a great girl. Really smart, really pretty. Damn good soccer player, obviously. You should get to know her better."

"Look, Jane is wonderful, all warmth and kindness." _And hopefully more faithful than her sister_, he thought. "She's perfect for you. But her sister is a different story. Elizabeth is, well, quite the opposite."

Charles, his brow furrowed, slowly shook his head. "God, Darcy. Jane and Elizabeth are nothing like their mother. So what's the problem? She isn't one of your society chicks? You can be such a jerk."

"So I've been told," he replied quietly. "You know none of them mean anything, Charles. I'm just an 'escort' for them." Darcy keyed in the code and opened the car door. Charles reached in and patted the dog.

"She looks good, Darce. Healthy."

The taller man nodded. "The surgery was a full success. She still sleeps quite a bit, but her appetite is back."

"That's great. I mean, she's what, nearly 15 years old?" Charles asked gently.

Darcy nodded. "I should go."

Suddenly Jane was beside them, holding out a paper bag. "Lizzy's cookies, fresh from the oven. Plus, I put in some coconut snowballs and raspberry chocolate stars and a few other kinds." She put the bag in Darcy's hands and gave him a brief hug.

"Drive safely, Fitzwilliam. Merry Christmas."

Lump firmly in throat, Darcy smiled and croaked out a thank you. He shook hands with his friend, wished him happy holidays and drove away, Coco curled up on her blanket beside him.

Charles put his arm around and Jane and steered them back to the house. "That was very sweet of you, Jane. He doesn't get homemade cookies in a lunch bag very often."

"Hey smarty pants, there was festive holiday Tupperware inside that bag!"

"Okay, okay. It was very thoughtful. And very nice of Lizzy to send out a few cookies too."

Jane shook her head. "Well, she wasn't very happy about it. One batch was a bit burnt and I took some of the good ones. Just five or so. But she didn't want to spare them."

The couple stopped at the front door. "She doesn't like him very much, does she?" Charles said quietly.

"I don't really know," Jane replied, wrapping her arms tightly around Charles' waist. "She hasn't said anything to me, and normally she has an opinion on everything."

~~%~~

Christmas Eve festivities at an end, the sisters settled into the twin beds in the bedroom they'd shared until a few years ago.

Jane burrowed down under the blue paisley bedspread and yawned. "Did Lydia tell you about the party?"

"Yes," Elizabeth murmured. "Her Super Sweet Sixteen party? In Orlando."

Jane rolled over and looked over at her sister. "You sound mad."

"Well, why can't I be? Neither of us had a Sweet Sixteen party, and Lydia is getting one in Florida?"

"Technically, the party is here with all of her friends," Jane said. "Then she gets to take a few girls down to Barbara's condo."

"Wait, she's being chaperoned, right?" Visions of Lydia's future in the cast of MTV's "Jersey Shore" filled Elizabeth's head.

"Barbara and Dad are going, and Mary is going too, but only to hang out in Harry Potter World." Jane sighed. "It's not that I want to go, but they didn't even ask if we wanted to," she whispered.

"They never do, Jane," Elizabeth replied fiercely. "Barbara is their mom, and moms throw Sweet Sixteens. Mary and Lydia were losing their front teeth and starting chapter books when you and I turned 16. Nobody even thought about it."

"I know. Well, it's nice that Dad is so involved."

Elizabeth snorted. "Like Barbara gives him any choice. I guess being told what to do and where to go and what to wear and what to order for an entrée is easier for him than having to make the effort to think for himself."

"That's not fair, Lizzy. He's a passive, she's an aggressive."

Elizabeth didn't say anything.

"Lizzy?"

"Jane, why can't two people just be attuned to each other and love each other? Be a team?"

"Oh Lizzy, you and your romantic sports metaphors."

"Shut up, Janey," Elizabeth said lightly. "You've got a man calling you 'his angel.'" She squinted up at the ceiling; a few glow-in-the-dark stars remained there from the kit she'd used the day they moved into their stepmother's house. Jane had wanted to stick them up there to spell out N'Sync. Elizabeth, who preferred the Backstreet Boys, refused and arranged them into the correct constellations.

"Lizzy, I'm sorry if I've been a bad sister lately. I know I've left you hanging a few times because of Charles, and I feel terrible about it."

Elizabeth sighed. "I know, Jane. And you haven't been a bad sister. You're in love and it's the real thing, isn't it?"

"It is, Lizzy. Finally. Just like in fairy tales."

She could hear the tremor in Jane's voice.

"I'm glad, Janey. You deserve it. You deserve a man as good as Charles. In fact, I believe I deem him worthy of you," she said, giggling.

"He has some cute friends, Lizzy. We could double-date…."

Elizabeth rolled over and stared at the clock. "I've met his best friend, Jane. Not my type. And right now, I don't have time, okay?"

"Actually, you sound just like Darcy. All he does is work too." Jane sighed. "Lizzy, why were you so quiet about your book?"

"I don't know. Superstitious? And it's not _my_ book. I'm doing it for the company."

"Because they paid for your master's?"

_Yes, Jane. At Columbia._ Elizabeth thought, sighing. "Any marketing firm that pays for anyone, let alone a still-wet-behind-the-ears, social-media averse employee, to go to grad school can put me to work on whatever they want. And since I'm a 'creative writer,' according to Mr. Phillips, I'm handling some of the interviews, and writing the copy and editing the submissions. Plus, I get a credit in the acknowledgements."

"What, no byline?" Jane asked, incredulous.

"No, but that's okay," Elizabeth said quickly. "It's not a bad deal, other than the endless phone calls and schmoozing the famous and the infamous for their contributions. Amazing how guys who can sink 25-ft. putts or throw a ball 120 mph can't spell or even write coherently."

Jane sat up on one elbow. "You mean Jared?" she asked, ruminating on the last-minute addition to tonight's Christmas Eve dinner. "He seemed a little thick to me."

Elizabeth giggled. "Yeah. He might be the greatest Greco-Roman wrestler in the history of the world, but they sure never made him go to English class." She sighed ruefully. "I was working with him this morning and he didn't have anywhere to go tonight. I hope Dad and Barbara didn't get the wrong idea."

"Oh, I think Dad was having fun trying to envision your wedding. He was mumbling about triple-X size tuxes."

"Jane!"

"Don't worry, Lizzy. We're used to you bringing home strays. Besides, I think Dad's decided no one is good enough for you. Just promise me you haven't decided that too."

Elizabeth rolled away from her sister and stared up at the plastic stars. "You know Janey, just because you've met _your_ Prince Charming doesn't mean there isn't one out there for me, somewhere, someday. Maybe I'm just picky. I bet there's even one out there for Mary, for god's sake," she said, yawning.

"That girl needs to work on her social skills," Jane replied with an answering yawn. "Did Lydia tell you what she said to Fitzwilliam? 'You are not my Chinese.'"

Elizabeth laughed. "Bad enough the high and mighty had to drive to Queens, but that's the greeting he gets?"

"Be nice," Jane scolded. "He drove here to drop off gifts, not to get paid in Christmas cookies. Actually," she added, "he was embarrassed about the cookies. But he seemed pretty happy too."

"Well, he should have been happy. I'm a mighty fine baker, Jane. So are you. And you gave him half of my best batch."

"Lizzy, he's much nicer than you seem to think he is. Make an effort, will you? He's Charles' best friend."

"Yes, ma'am," Elizabeth teased. "After all, he buys expensive gifts for his friends. Even for Caroline? What's the deal there?"

"She's his best friend's sister," Jane shrugged. "It's all in her head. Trust me, the guy she thinks is her Prince Charming sees her as the poison apple, or a frog or something."

"Jane!"

"Well, it's true. I feel sorry for him when we're all together. He gets stuck with her. They each need to pair off with someone else, pronto. Him first, though. She won't settle for anyone until she sees he's taken."

Elizabeth didn't say anything. _Darcy, the hunted and Caroline, the huntress. He avoids eye contact but ends up with lipstick on his cheek anyway. They both sneer at my sister, the evil Jersey gold digger. He won't date her but he gives her Christmas presents? Talk about sending mixed messages. At least I'm not the only one who can't figure out how his mind works. I just know he's a jerk. A confused, arrogant man who walked away from the best thing he'll never have. _

"Lizzy?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you like your job. You seem to be having fun."

"True. If I'm lucky, this book might be a stepping stone. The guy I'm working with, the sports agent, he has some contacts at the publishing house so I think I'll get a meeting about _my _book. I hope."

"That's fantastic, Lizzy," Jane yawned. "The one about the blacklist?"

"Um-um."

"Cool. I love '50s fashion. So who is this agent? Is he cute?"

"He's not bad," Elizabeth said, burrowing her head into her pillow. "Ultra charming, but in a smarmy kind of way."

"What's his name?"

"George. George Wickham."

** Notes:**

_John Dos Passos' "U.S.A." trilogy, a novel published in 1938, uses some experimental narrative techniques to cover the historical development of American society during the first three decades of the twentieth century. Dos Passos was a radical novelist who studied Communism and Socialism and later became active in 1960s Republican politics._


	5. Chapter 5

_So. A few readers asked about a lack of banter in the last chapter. Well, there's some here, and a lot more D&E interaction as well. But we do need our story to move forward with the occasional expository paragraph or three. Warning: This was posted under the influence of massive amounts of Novocaine. And no so-called cliffie this time. Really!_

**Chapter 5**

He really wasn't that cute, or clever, or even as well-connected as Elizabeth had hoped. But George Wickham did have charm, and a thick Rolodex—or what passed for one in the contact list on his iPhone. And she needed to get ahold of a few names totally out of her reach if she was going to get this coffee-table book wrapped up and to the publishers by May.

It was for this reason alone that she'd trudged through the late January snow to meet him for coffee. Did that mean she was using him? Maybe a little, Elizabeth thought, but at least he wasn't hard to spend time with. She'd met George a few weeks ago at Blackie's, a sports bar near the Phillips/Hill offices. She'd been with a large group from her office watching the Knicks lose, and he'd been hanging out with what he called his "band of brothers." She'd cocked an eyebrow at that overused phrase. "Really? Did you fight together side by side on St. Crispin's Day or just hang out and watch the DVDs together?"

He'd smiled perhaps the whitest smile Elizabeth had ever seen—she was sure it glowed in black light—and had assured her that he and his boys were united by two important, all-consuming bonds: their fantasy football league and the fact that none of them, nearing 30, was yet married. "We won't give up the first, but one or two of us are yearning for hearth and home," he'd said. She'd nodded and wondered how sports-obsessed metrosexuals who gambled could begin to qualify as husband material.

It wasn't until she'd learned he was a sports agent that Elizabeth had been able to set aside her first impression of his blindingly shiny façade and start a normal conversation about sports, about the book project she was working on, and about athletes she'd really like to include in it. And it had been a pretty amazing thing that George had just happened to know half a dozen of the names she'd mentioned. "Derek Jeter?" he'd said. "No problem." Her hopes swelling, they'd exchanged numbers and he'd vowed to follow up.

Since that initial meeting, Elizabeth had secured two of the big names she'd sought, exchanged emails with a few others, and sat down and interviewed perhaps the largest man she'd ever met—an Alabama boy turned all-pro defensive linebacker. He looked like a fearsome giant until he broke into a gentle smile. She wondered what it would be like not to have a neck, or to have biceps and triceps bigger around than an average person's waist. It was a great interview, and he shared a wonderful story about Bear Bryant, the venerated college coach turned into a saint by Crimson Tide fans. Elizabeth was thrilled, and couldn't wait for the biggest catch of all—George said he was well-acquainted with a number of current and former Yankees players. He had lots of stories himself, and she couldn't help but notice a natural charisma that seemed to win over everyone they encountered.

Although she kept their meetings to her office or a lunch table, Elizabeth did enjoy spending time with him; she knew college sports, but through George and his contacts, she also was learning a lot about the inside game of professional sports. He seemed interested in her too, especially after he overheard her on the phone insisting to Jane that she really didn't want to go to any happy hour that included the Bingley sisters.

"Bingley? Do they have a brother named Charles?" George put down his coffee and looked at her curiously.

"Yes, my sister's dating him."

George looked stricken. "Oh. That means his friend is hovering about…Darcy? Poor little rich boy Darcy?"

Elizabeth's phone chimed, signaling a text. She ignored it and peered at him closely. "Yes, the illustrious Fitzwilliam Darcy. You know him?"

"Much to my great misfortune. He is the bane of my existence."

A chill enveloped her. "Exactly how is it you know him?" she demanded.

Wickham stared bleakly at her. "You wonder why I spend so much time with my buddies drinking and betting on games? Because they're the band of brothers who took care of me after Darcy ruined my life."

Elizabeth stared at him. "What?"

George reached across the table and took her hand. "I was dating the most beautiful woman. She was wealthy, a blue-blooded Vassar girl, but she loved me. _Me_—a guy from Yonkers. She was at some Park Avenue shindig without me, and he was there and put the moves on her. Told her she'd be the perfect Mrs. Darcy, and once he'd slept with her and was done messing with her head, he tossed her aside. As always. He uses his money and his nice cars to get what he wants. I wanted to marry her, but after she saw the life I couldn't give her, she didn't love me anymore."

"Oh my god." _She doesn't sound like a keeper, though._

"Darcy's likely slept with every socialite between here and London. He's got himself some serious mommy issues," George stated in a cold voice. "His mother was a bit of a party girl herself."

_Oh._

"Do be careful around him, Liz. You're a nice girl, so you're probably safe. He doesn't touch nice, middle-class girls."

"Oh dear, well, you know us nice state college co-eds. We have cooties," she said, rolling her eyes until she recalled Darcy's censure of their interlude . _"This is wrong. We can't do this."_

George smiled and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "He's an idiot. Doesn't know what he's missing with someone like you."

_Tell me about it._ She pulled her hand out of his and sipped her coffee. She could tell George had more to say but she didn't need to hear any more. Darcy was even more awful than she'd thought, but she didn't want to hear about his mother. She knew enough about unhappy mothers; learning that Fitzwilliam Darcy also had mommy issues left her feeling uncomfortable for reasons she didn't want to explore.

After that overly caffeinated conversation, George had texted her to prepare herself for a likely meeting with Derek Jeter. Then he asked her out on a real date. After rolling her eyes at his _texted _invitation to dinner, Elizabeth had declined, citing the ethical separation of her work and social lives. She didn't bring up Darcy again and kept their subsequent meetings focused on who George knew, and whether that person—a Hall of Fame tight-end for the Cowboys, an Olympic silver medalist in speed-skating—could be contacted. Other than that dinner date, he hadn't asked for anything in return. Yet. In truth, she didn't want him to. His charm was infectious, but that made him dangerous. Being around him was all too easy, and that, like his solicitous charm, was a red flag.

Besides, she didn't have time for men. There was work, there was her research on the 1950s Red Scare for the book she was writing at home, there was her hope of going for her Ph.D. once she was out of debt. And there was Jane, who seemed to need Elizabeth's ear more than was usual. Charles was "the one." _Hmm, was he?_ Clark and James and Jeff had seemed pretty much perfect too—until Jane decided they weren't. And then they all went off and found women who liked them just the way they were, got married and in at least one case, became a father. _You're 26, Jane. Just have fun_, Elizabeth thought to herself. _This isn't the 19__th__ century. You have at least another decade, maybe more, before you can start to freak out. _

So much time. Their parents, Ted and Sylvia, had made a mistake, the first of many, when they had gotten married two months after they'd met. He hadn't pulled out, according to the oft-told "Let this be a warning to you" story their mother told Jane and Elizabeth, and she'd gotten pregnant their very first time. So they got hitched; it's what nice girls still did in 1981. That baby was lost but they forged on together, a few years passed, and they welcomed Jane, followed just over a year later by Elizabeth. Rather than justifying her choice to marry Ted Bennet, having two little girls seemed to compound their mother's belief that her life as currently scripted was a mistake. Jane might chalk it up to undiagnosed post-partum depression, but Elizabeth could neither excuse nor forgive her mother for spending mortgage payments on QVC, going off for "girl's weekends" in Atlantic City, and then, finally leaving them for good a decade later. Last time either girl had seen a birthday card from her, it had arrived from Branson, Missouri, where Sylvia Bennet LaRue was pursuing a career as a backup singer at Dollywood.

Elizabeth wondered if both she and Jane were afraid of making the same mistakes as their mother. Not by making late-night credit-card binges on purses and kitchen appliances and Elizabeth Taylor jewelry knockoffs, but by settling for someone because it seemed safe and only realizing the mistake when you were too far in and children and mortgages and car payments were in the way. Jane always jumped in with both feet and her heart on her sleeve. As a result of her emotional leaps, Jane's 20s had proved messy. Until Charles. "The One."

Elizabeth, on the other hand, treaded water and avoided commitment. As if she'd had time between college and soccer and grad school and working to actually focus on any of the guys she'd dated. She didn't have time now. No, the thing to do was to concentrate on work and pay attention to Jane. She could be her guardian angel, and keep an eye on Charles. It seemed as if she was always trailing in their wake anyway. Maybe someone decent, someone she really liked and trusted, would bob up in the flotsam and jetsam. Someone decent and smart and interesting, for god's sake. No more men interested in fish or metallurgy or arcane sports statistics. God, between the guys she met at parties and this book project on athletes and their heroes, she was tired of listening to stories about the catch that should've been made or the asterisk that some player should have next to his record. She needed to talk to someone about the new Margaret Atwood book, or why Supreme Court appointments were for life, or why mesh leggings remained an office no-no. Anything.

There she was, though, on a cold Monday night, emptying the dishwasher and listening to Charles and Jane discuss some weird office politics he was dealing with at work. Then he told her about a benefit later in the week that they had to attend. "The earth is warming, Janey. And if writing a check and eating figs wrapped in bacon will help, then I'm going to plunge into those icy waters and save the baby penguins."

Jane giggled and murmured, "My hero." Elizabeth had to start humming to avoid hearing any more. _Dammit, I need to keep my earbuds handy at all times_. Soon the whispering and moaning stopped and she heard laughter.

"Janey, you have to get Lizzy to come. The food will be fantastic, and that cool Swedish guy is deejaying."

Jane walked into the kitchen and raised her eyebrows. "Thursday. The Waldorf Astoria. Seven p.m. Be there." She held her sister's gaze until Lizzy broke into a resigned smile and nodded.

"Sure. I like penguins too. But they better drink a toast to Gus. Best polar bear ever."

Jane squeezed Elizabeth's shoulder. "Yes, I think you liked Gus better than you've liked half the guys you've dated…."

"Not that it's such a long list," she added quickly in the face of her sister's fierce glare. "Okay, I need to change. We're going to couples yoga."

It took a minute before Elizabeth could repress the vision of Charles and Jane in matching leotards doing synchronized musing ended as she heard Charles' voice.

"C'mon, Darce. You'll know everybody. It'll be great."

"Define great."

Elizabeth froze when she heard Darcy's voice. _Why did Charles have his phone on speaker?_

"There'll be lots of beautiful women. Besides Jane, of course."

"Charles, the last thing I need is to go to one of Bertram's parties."

"C'mon, it's a benefit for polar bears and penguins. Glaciers. You know, awareness of climate change, or something."

"I'd rather not deal with—."

"Caroline's out of town, you're safe," Charles said. "And Janey says Elizabeth will be there."

Elizabeth suddenly realized Darcy hadn't replied. She peeked around the corner and saw Charles in the downward-facing dog position. _Ah…the endless possibilities of hands-free phones. Is he actually practicing his positions?_

"I don't have time for your girlfriend's tomboy sister. I'm busy."

_Tomboy sister?_

"Got some blondes lined up around the corner, do you?" Charles puffed. "Geez, man, are you out of practice with the walk of shame? You used to embarrass the rest of us."

"Shut up, Charles."

"You need to get out more, my friend."

There was a heavy sigh over the phone line. "Look, I'm working here, just text me the particulars, all right?"

A full minute passed before Elizabeth realized she was still gripping a fistful of flatware.

_Blondes lined up? George has him pegged._

She was furious. What had he said to her that night? _"I don't casually sleep around."_

She had integrity. She'd never, ever done the walk of shame. The closest she'd ever come was that night, with him at Netherfield, for reasons she still could not fathom. _So he's king of the one-night stands but I'm not good enough? He tells me he doesn't sleep around and it turns out he does, with everyone but me? Does he check their diplomas? Or the Social Register?_

Elizabeth stomped to the front door, shoved on her boots and a jacket, and headed out. She needed to stop at the ATM and go buy orange juice. And if she happened to see a familiar face at Starbucks, she wouldn't pass up an hour talking to someone who appreciated her.

~~%~~

Darcy leaned against the wall and glanced around at his fellow do-gooders, a hundred or so well-heeled socially conscious types noshing on maki and trying to grasp the environmental consequences of global warming. He was jaded but even he had to admit that this crowd seemed more aware, and definitely more alarmed, about the changing environment after Hurricane Sandy had flooded the city. Still, did they need a high-end party at the Waldorf to get them to contribute money?

But here he was as well. For what was likely the 423rd time since he'd met Charles, Darcy had given in to his friend's wishes. Why did he always say yes? How did Charles get him to do things he didn't want to do? And where the hell _was _Charles? It was bad enough he'd agreed to come to a fundraiser hosted by the Bertrams. His mother had known their parents but had kept the Darcy heir far away from the Bertram girls. He'd been a handsome boy from a young age and his mother had noticed the way even college girls eyed her barely teenaged son. "Look in their eyes before you say or do anything, William," she would say. "There are some cold hearts in this world that could break yours, but you could break a few as well. Be careful. See what's in their eyes."

One pair of heavily made-up eyes seemed especially focused on him tonight. Her well-manicured hands weren't shy either. But after a long week of reading contracts and playing referee at management squabbles, Darcy didn't have the energy to fight off Samantha Bertram. He didn't have the interest for what she clearly had in mind either. She'd spotted him within minutes of his arrival and had barely left his side. He'd already excused himself twice in an hour for the men's room; unless he found Charles fairly soon, he'd be heading there again. Or heading home. Relief arrived when a few friends from the club drifted over and started talking about the future of the euro. He was able to make a small joke about Holland's economic meltdown from tulip bulb inflation, and forget about the blonde standing too close to him.

Then he saw Elizabeth walk in. With some kind of blond Viking beside her. _Fuck. Seriously? _

Samantha noticed the newcomers almost as quickly as he did. "Who is that?" she breathed into his ear. He knew she didn't mean the beautiful dark-haired one in the short red dress and black thigh-high boots. _Wow. She was stunning._

He shrugged his shoulders and said, "No clue." _No flaws, either. He was the perfect male specimen. Every woman's dream. Maybe every man's, too. Cripes._

"Really? Because she seems to recognize you, Darcy," Samantha replied, icily.

His eyes met Elizabeth's as hers finished scanning the room. She gazed at him, then Samantha, without expression, dipped her head in acknowledgment, and disappeared with her date into the throng.

Darcy pulled his arm away from Samantha. "It was good to see you, Samantha. And it was nice catching up with all of you," he said, nodding to the three men still immersed in their dissection of the global economy.

He'd never seen Elizabeth in anything but jeans or sweats; she was a vision in a little red dress. A vision in the arms of another man, apparently. What happened to that Brian guy? Or that brute from Christmas Eve? Was she always with someone, flitting from relationship to relationship? Were they always hulking athletes? Did she have co-dependency issues and simply have to have a boyfriend? How was she so different from Jane, who seemed so laser-focused on Charles? Where _was_ she, anyway?

He finally spotted her standing with the happy twosome by the oversized penguin ice sculpture. Darcy set his empty glass on a passing waiter's tray and headed toward them.

Charles spotted him first. "Having fun, Darce? Did you make your pledge?" he asked, gesturing toward a giant aquarium empty of water but filled with plastic ice cubes and checks.

"I did it online," Darcy said.

"Online giving…the face-saving refuge of the people who forgot their checkbook. Or don't really believe in a cause," said Elizabeth. She smiled and bit the olive off her toothpick.

"Or those who live in the 21st century," he replied. "How are you, Elizabeth?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Darcy."

_Mr. Darcy?_ "And your friend?"

"Who? Oh, Stefan? He ran into an old chum," she replied, wondering where his date had gone.

He nodded. "Um, you look very nice." _And you're here with a Nordic sex god._

"I clean up pretty well for a tomboy, don't I?" she answered, staring Darcy straight in the eye.

_Fuckity fuck._ "You heard that?" He glared at Charles. "Your phone was on speaker? And you didn't tell me?"

Charles shrugged. "I was doing yoga. It never occurred to me that my highborn friend would say something stupidly insulting about my girlfriend's sister."

Darcy sighed and hung his head. "Um, Elizabeth, just for the record, I apologize. I didn't mean anything by it, but I was rude. It's rather clear to me tonight that you are _anything_ but a tomboy."

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Darcy," Elizabeth replied. "When in doubt of who is listening, try a different language. You're safe in Latin, Portuguese, Russian and all Asian and Arabic languages. I speak decent Spanish, read a little French, and can curse in German and Italian." She flashed him a smile. "Queens, you know. It's a veritable melting pot of cultures."

His eyes were glazed and he was a bit afraid his mouth was hanging open, but Darcy had enough of his wits left to realize he was going to need another drink.

"That blonde over there, who is not now and probably never was a tomboy, seems to be looking for you." Elizabeth sipped from her cocktail and smiled at him.

Charles laughed. "A blonde, eh? Who is that—?" He craned his neck to see around a pillar. "Yikes. Samantha? Really, Darcy?" He turned back and waggled his eyebrows at the Bennet sisters. "He has a long and sordid history with that one."

"Dammit, Charles—."

It clearly wasn't a happy one, judging from the expression on Darcy's face. Jane put her hand on his arm. "Fitzwilliam, could you help me find this legendary dessert table everyone keeps talking about? I heard something about miniature baked Alaskas." He looked down at her, this serene woman who was urging him to escape from the shitstorm now swirling about him.

"Gladly, I think I saw it over there," he said, leading her away from all things awkward. As they moved slowly through the crowd, he thanked her for her help. "I had no idea Elizabeth heard me say that. I didn't mean it. She—You and your sister are both lovely," he said awkwardly as they arrived at the table laden with expensive chocolates and sugary treats.

"I know you didn't. She knows, too."

"You think so?" Darcy didn't agree. Elizabeth looked angry, insulted.

"Let's not think about it anymore. Charles is happy he got you to come tonight. He says it isn't easy to get you out of the house."

"I have a very hard time saying no to him."

Jane laughed. "Me too." She clamped her hand over her mouth. "That came out wrong."

"No, it's fine. Charles has always been a social fellow. He fills up his calendar and he likes to include me."

"Charles is just like Lizzy…" she said, smiling. "Always picking up strays."

"Sorry?"

"He doesn't like anyone left out. And really, he only mentioned that Lizzy would be here because he didn't want either of you coming alone to an event hosted by the Bertrams. He's mentioned they have some issues," she added quietly.

Darcy looked down at the plate Jane was filling with tiny sweets. "Elizabeth didn't come alone."

Jane bit into a miniature pink cupcake. Her eyes alight, she nodded her head. "She's been busy with Stefan this week, but he'll be gone soon. I think she's got something set up with somebody else—Douglas something or other—for then."

_Wow. Another one? _He felt like the breath had been knocked out of him.

After escorting Jane back to Charles, Darcy went to the bar for a club soda. He leaned against a pillar and watched the happy couple. She was very kind and very pretty. But her eyes never left Charles, especially if another woman came near. His friend had always been warm and drolly amusing, but Darcy wondered if Jane didn't smile a bit too much, touch Charles' hand or his arm a bit too often. Didn't she didn't think it odd that her sister had a revolving door of boyfriends or lovers or whatever they were? Was Elizabeth this hot and cold with all of them after it ended? Was she always as distant as she seemed with him, a man who could've slept with her but instead acted as a gentleman? Did she even value anything they'd talked about? He dropped his head and rubbed his neck with his free hand. He was tired, and he felt as though a head cold was lurking in his sinuses.

"Darcy?" said a feminine voice.

He froze. With the pounding music and conversational hum, it was difficult to discern exactly who had said his name. _I'm this close to leaving and Samantha finds me now?_

"Fitzwilliam, are you okay?"

He looked to his left and saw Elizabeth staring at him. Her hand was on his arm.

"You look like you don't feel well. Too much chocolate? Or was it the gin? Bad mix, if you ask me." She raised her eyebrows.

"No, um, I'm fine. Just a bit tired." His eyes swept her face and he noticed one of her earrings was dangling at an odd angle. He lifted his hand toward her ear, gesturing. "Your earring is falling out."

"Oh!" Elizabeth cupped one hand under her ear and the other started checking her lobe. "The backing fell off. You saw it just in time." She took out the other earring and put both in her small black bag. "Thank you. They're not worth much but they have sentimental value."

When she tilted her head, Will had caught himself staring at her perfectly shaped ear. He'd licked that ear. Did she remember that?

"It's just fortunate you were here, with me, so I could see the problem," he said. "I mean, it's a good thing you happened by now, before it was too late." _God, is English my first language?_

"Me too. I'm a lucky girl, Nurse Darcy."

It took him a second to react. The deejay was turning up the music to get people on the dance floor. He started to tell her that now they were even, but the simultaneous arrivals of Stefan and Samantha interrupted the moment.

"Elizabeth, we should go. We have an early start tomorrow." The blond Viking glowed. Samantha beamed at him. "So nice to meet you, Stefan," she purred. "Have a good flight. C'mon, Darcy—I need a nightcap."

Darcy watched Elizabeth walk off arm in arm with Stefan. The circulation in his own arm was cut off by Samantha's tightening grasp. She rubbed her other hand across his chest.

"You always play hard to get, big guy. I've known you for years and barely been kissed. Perhaps this is our night."

"Samantha…."

"Oh, come on. You have another girl at home?" She pulled his arm closer so it rubbed against her barely covered breasts.

His jaw tightened. "As a matter of fact, I do. And she probably needs her walk." He pulled away, turned to her and nodded.

"Good night."

~~%~~

_Of course he was with a blonde,_ Elizabeth fumed. One with perfect teeth and genes that likely arrived here on the Mayflower. Samantha Bertram. Now there was a name straight from the Social Register. Elizabeth scrolled down the Google references to the Bertram family. Old money, investment banking , polo-playing types. Didn't the Pilgrims eschew money and material goods, or did all the altruistic types die off during those long Massachusetts winters? She clicked exit and scooted deeper under the covers. Would February and its dreary cold never end?

Elizabeth stared at the screen. Should she? Googling Darcy would make valid her curiosity. She didn't want to do it. Looking up people she didn't know was one thing, but Elizabeth was resistant to prying into the Internet trail of people she'd met. It was too invasive; she certainly didn't want people forming an opinion about her based on a neglected Facebook page, dated stories about her soccer career, and whatever pictures other people had tagged her in. Not that she'd ever Googled herself. Charlotte _had_, after one too many chocolate martinis. The girl was a menace.

Her fingers wavered over the keyboard. Finally she started typing in his name and clicked enter. The page filled with entries from _The_ _Financial Times, The Wall Street Journal, The London Times, The New York Times, Fortune_, a LinkedIn profile. Businesses, corporate interests and boards, philanthropies…it was overwhelming. _He_ was overwhelming. She couldn't fathom reading any of it. She was about to exit when a thumbnail photo from the _Times'_ Style section caught her eye. She clicked on it. There he was at some gala, in a tux, with a thin blonde beauty on his arm and another beautiful young couple beside them. "Yup, just as I thought." Elizabeth chewed her lip and reached for the mouse. There were a lot of entries here. _No, I know enough._ She clicked exit and closed her laptop.

_Sometimes I hate being right. _

Notes:

Gus was the neurotic polar bear at the Central Park Zoo who died in August 2013. He was 27 and had been in therapy for obsessive swimming disorder. Seriously.

Darcy wasn't joking about tulip bulbs. The world of commerce in the 1630s was like a classic Monty Python skit.

Sports trivia: Derek Jeter will retire next season after playing shortstop for the New York Yankees for 19 years. Bear Bryant was the legendary coach of the University of Alabama's Crimson Tide football team.


	6. Chapter 6

_A little resent, a little retrenchment. These two are such a mess. Glad so many of you are enjoying the story and letting me know! Thanks!_

**Chapter 6**

Saturday morning found a few inches of snow on the ground and a claustrophobic Elizabeth staring at last Sunday's crossword puzzle. _Why did I not finish this? Ohhhh….right. Anime questions. There's something I never need to know anything about._ After a trip to the gym and an hour spent noodling with some writing, she was happy to meet Charlotte for lunch and rather pleased with herself to arrive only five minutes late, which meant she was only ten minutes later than her ever-prompt friend. What was it with accountants? Bean counters, clock watchers….

She indulged in a chicken pot pie and a glass of pinot while listening to Charlotte's frustrating stories of accounting incompetence, twisted tales of her foray into online dating, and complaints about annoying cowlicks that kept her hair in a permanent pixie-cut.

"Geez Charlotte. You sound like Jane sometimes. She's tired of being a bridesmaid at Gamma Phi weddings, and tired of breaking up with squishy guys who can't commit to her but get engaged to the next girl they screw."

"Lizzy! Wait, what do you mean `squishy?" Charlotte sipped her pale ale and leaned closer. "Since when has Jane dated men who don't work out five days a week?"

"Squishy, sleazy, slimy, faithless. Whatever."

"I'll have another," Charlotte said to the waiter as she tapped the rim of her glass. "So tell me, Lizzy. Is this really about you, the woman of a thousand men?"

"Ha. They're not my men. They're my clients. Interviewees. Subjects."

"Subjects?" Charlotte cackled. "And you, the queen, deign to take them to parties? To the Guggenheim? To your dad's house? Do you knight them too?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, although she wasn't quite as lighthearted about it as she seemed. "It's not like that, Charlotte. I'm trying to gain their trust and talk to them as a friend, someone they can tell their story to."

"Are they arm candy? Or are you getting a taste of any of those sweet muscled men?" Charlotte snickered. "That Stefan guy was pretty hot."

"And very much in love with his boyfriend in Taos."

"Really? _Really?!_ So much for my gaydar." Charlotte took her fresh drink from the server and reached for a breadstick. She tapped it against Elizabeth's wine glass. "So none of these guys you're dragging to New York hot spots is anything more to you than a business relationship?

"Yes, Charlotte. Sadly, I have become an ace at short-term, but lucrative and entertaining business relationships."

Charlotte regarded Elizabeth thoughtfully. "How about real men?"

"Know any?" Elizabeth scoffed.

"Jane seems awfully happy with Charles. He's sweet, solid and loyal. Whatever happened to his friend, the stiff English guy who bought us nachos? What was his name?"

"Fitzwilliam Darcy." Elizabeth took a bit of pot pie and considered her answer. "He's not so stiff. Apparently, he's some kind of sleazy playboy. Sleeps around but still thinks he's all high and mighty."

"Really? Well, I guess he dressed nicely. The money was obvious, but are you sure about the sleazy part?" Charlotte raised her eyebrows. "What do you know?"

Elizabeth finished her wine. "I know that Charles is an honest guy who has better taste in girlfriends than he does in friends," she muttered darkly.

"Whoa. That's harsh. Why do you care so much, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth stabbed her fork into her pot pie. She focused on trying to find a piece of chicken or a potato or a carrot—anything but another chunk of celery or onion. The best bits were always buried deep, under the gravy and flakes from the crust.

"We had a near-miss. A close encounter of the horizontal kind. An almost one-night stand." There was silence on the other side of the table, so Elizabeth finally looked up. "Oh for god's sake, Charlotte. Close your mouth and chew."

Charlotte raised her hand, put one finger in the air and rapidly chewed and swallowed her mouthful of salad. She sipped her beer and slowly lowered her hand.

"Shut the back door! I knew you liked him!"

"Oh god, no. I was spun out on wine and a Vicodin."

"Not when I saw you with him at the game. You guys sparked."

"Ugh, that was before. The close encounter was a couple of weeks later."

"A couple of weeks?" Charlotte shook her head. "Elizabeth Bennet, I don't know where to start. First off, why the hell were you taking Vicodin? Second, where the hell did you get it from, some skeeve down on Bleeker? And lastly, I need details! You made out with that smoldering mass of man?"

_D for Duh…why do I tell her anything?_ Elizabeth wondered. "Okay, here are your answers: Because my leg hurt. I had one pill left over from last year. And he is not smoldery. He just wears a lot of black."

"And orange stripes on his socks. Supposedly," Charlotte replied, one eyebrow arched. "You covered for him at that game, a total stranger. Why? I'll tell you why. Because you liked him." She observed Elizabeth's defiant stare. "Or, at the very least, you thought he was hot."

"Look, we were at Netherfield and Jane and Charles deserted us. He helped me after I hurt my leg, and I was woozy. The room was dark, the couch was comfy, the night stretched out before us in all its inky splendor…."

"Who made the first move?"

Elizabeth took a sip of wine and cleared her throat."Me. But before things got really hot and heavy, he stopped."

"He what…?" Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Be specific, please. Stopped as in pulled out or zipped up…?"

"Geez, Char. There was no pulling or zipping! We made out like a couple of teenagers. It was stupid. I was stupid. Darcy is apparently some kind of playboy, 'sex on a stick' to busty blondes, and sleeps with everyone."

"Except you," Charlotte said quietly.

Elizabeth drained her wine glass and stared back at her friend. "Yup. Except me." She wanted to stop remembering his cold words and his solemn expression when he'd said them. _"This is wrong. We can't do this."_

"I don't get it. And that's why you hate him? Because he respected you too much? Lizzy, you just said you were in pain and on prescription meds and you'd had a drink. Maybe he was just being a gentleman."

"No. His mother was a party girl, and he's just followed suit."

"You have this on good authority?"

"I've heard it from one who knows. And I have eyes and ears." Elizabeth kept the former focused on her plate.

"Perhaps you're listening to the wrong people. He's Charles' best friend, isn't he? Would Sweetie Pie Charles tolerate that behavior? Would he want to be friends with a jerk?"

"Argh, you're like Jane, always looking for the shining heroic bits of people."

"You know that's not true," Charlotte said. She shook her fork at her friend. "But maybe here, that's what's called for."

"Charlotte, even Charles jokes about Darcy's playboy habits. And I've spent time with him. The man is a walking exhibit from the Social Register. You saw how he reacted to UM fans. He doesn't sleep with women like me. He clearly didn't want me and whatever plebeian STDs I might bring to the party."

"But Lizzy…."

Elizabeth pushed away her food and folded up her napkin. "No buts, Char. You should've seen him Thursday night, with this perfectly polished, high-gloss, Upper East Side blonde. That's his type."

_Even if he looked miserable with her._

~~%~~

Still blinking as his eyes adjusted from the bright March sunshine to the dimly lit restaurant, Darcy scanned the dining room, looking for his cousin.

"Sir, can I help you?" A petite woman, her thin face framed by long brown hair and punctuated by unnaturally blue eyes, greeted him.

"No thank you. I'm meeting someone. I think he's already seated."

"Do you have a reservation?" The woman beamed at him.

"Uh, I'm not sure." He glanced at his watch. _Dammit, Rich. Where are you?_

The hostess stepped behind a small lectern and scanned her touchscreen. "Hmm, are you with the Morgan Stanley party?" She smiled up at him.

Finally, in the furthest corner, he spotted the familiar posture of his broad-shouldered cousin. "Excuse me." He gave the woman a tight grin and headed toward him.

"Darcy, you're late. Hope she was worth it."

Darcy slid into the silk-covered booth. "Shut it, Rich. Tell me you ordered me a tonic."

His brawny companion nodded. "I ordered you a tonic." Richard Fitzwilliam stroked his beard and gave his cousin a once-over. "So, rumor has it you looked at a woman today. It's been a while, right?"

Darcy leaned back in his chair and leveled a hard stare at his cousin. _Does he have eyes in the back of his head?_

"Why is it you so enjoy inquiring about my love life rather than say, my work? Or world affairs? Or the state of your stock portfolio?"

Rich laughed. "Are you denying you smiled at our lovely hostess over there?" he replied, gesturing toward the svelte brunette standing at the dining room's entrance. "Her name is Lila."

Darcy rolled his eyes and reached for the glass being delivered by the server.

"Oh fine," Rich sighed. "I suppose that nothing amuses me more than hearing your stuffy denials in that plummy accent." Noting his cousin's raised eyebrows, he hastened to add, "Honestly, Darcy, you've lived here for so long now and we've sat through so many Yankees games that sometimes I expect to hear the nasal tones of the Bronx come out of your mouth."

"As opposed to your refined East Hampton vowels?" Darcy smirked. It was good to see his cousin. He'd been his closest friend for years. Rich knew him as well as anyone could, but they'd spent less time together in the past year. Darcy had grown weary of the ribbing about his personal life. He knew his aunt and uncle were the ones behind the leading questions and the joking asides. He hadn't seen them since the holidays, but he'd had little patience over Christmas for the couple's less than subtle hints, and name-dropping of every extremely eligible, extremely intelligent, extremely wonderful woman of their acquaintance. A young man of good fortune indeed, he'd heard his aunts whispering. And that was before the sherry had even been served.

Darcy had never cared for such advice. His private life was private, and he rarely opened up, even to Rich anymore. Not that he had much to talk about lately, other than an occasional torrid dream or a momentary flirtation with a woman he knew he wouldn't meet again. And those were definitely off-limits for discussion, as was that regrettable interlude with Elizabeth Bennet. He still recalled the long-ago night that his parents, at what by then was a rare family dinner, had dissected the possible pairings at his first formal school dance. Red-faced, he'd stormed out of the dining room and run to his bedroom. Ten minutes later, his mother had knocked on the door, carrying a small covered tray. Georgiana, in pink pajamas, had toddled behind her, carrying a plastic tea cup.

"_Tea party!"_

_Darcy looked up from his slumped position on the window seat and reached for the empty pink cup. "Thanks, Georgie."_

_His mother set the tray on a table and removed the lid. She handed her son a plate with a large slice of cheesecake. His eyes widened and he sat up a bit straighter._

"_Mrs. Reynolds defrosted the last one today. I wanted to surprise you." Anne Darcy sighed and pushed her dark blonde hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry if we embarrassed you. We got a little carried away, hmm?" _

_Darcy, his mouth full of cheesecake, nodded. _

_She sat at the other end of the windowseat and gathered Georgie into her lap. "I know it's only a dance, William. It's not a wedding, it's not even a date. It's not a big deal, in the scheme of life." She glanced at her son, still intent on devouring the rare American treat. "But it's important to you now, isn't it?"_

"_A bit." His ears burned._

"_I was 13 when I went to my first big dance too." _

_Georgie turned and put her hands on her mother's cheeks. "Mama danced with Daddy?"_

_Her mother smiled. "No, sweets. I lived in New York then. I danced with American boys."_

"_Silly boys."_

"_All boys are silly at 13, aren't they?" Anne leaned over and squeezed her son's knee. "Their parents usually are too. They start to realize their boys are becoming men and," she hugged Georgie, "their little girls are becoming big girls."_

"_Georgie has to stay a little girl," Darcy said. He put the plate on the table and reached for the milk. "Big girls might not like pink dresses and pink ribbons and pink shoes."_

"_Pink!" Georgie wiggled out of her mother's arms and began twirling._

_Anne reached over and smoothed her son's hair. "You're a wonderful young man, Will. And there are a lot of wonderful young ladies out there. You have years of dances and parties and dates to look forward to. And if you don't want to dance, you never have to."_

_William's eyes shot up and he focused on his mother. "But…."_

"_But there will always be a girl who doesn't get asked. Try to be the gentleman who remembers that, and ask her." _

"…So then I asked her which delegation she needed, and she said, `I've only had about half of them.' Can you believe that? The Albanians thought it was hilarious." Rich, a diplomatic attaché at the UN, and always fond of his own jokes, roared with laughter until he noticed Darcy's attention had waned. He frowned and cleared his throat.

"Will you be at Annabella's opening tomorrow?"

"Of course," Darcy murmured, idly rubbing his finger around the lip of his glass.

"Need a date? I'm bringing Michelle. She has a roommate, you know…. Darcy?"

Rich turned to see where his cousin's attention had been diverted. He raised his eyebrows, and feeling his phone vibrate, reached to take an incoming call.

Darcy's eyes were focused on the hostess. She reminded him of Elizabeth Bennet. Her eyes were the wrong color and her smile wasn't as warm—not that he'd been the recipient of many of Elizabeth's smiles. But he'd seen her share a few genuine ones and heard her laughter, and her green eyes sparkled. This woman's eyes didn't shine that way. No one's did, and he was getting tired of making the comparison. But he couldn't get her face or her voice out of his head. It was exhausting.

"Lila's not really the hostess, you know," Rich said quietly. "She also happens to be the co-owner. And divorced."

Darcy shook his head. "What time is the opening?"

~~%~~

"I'm so glad you're with me," Jane whispered. "I've never been to an 'interpretive movement paint slam' before."

"I've never even heard of one," Elizabeth replied.

"Charles says Annabella is quite talented, if you can get past the anger. He says she likes to work with old barbed wire and twine."

"A Western motif?" _Angry much? Poor little rich girl._

Jane nodded, crinkled her nose and gestured to the stuffed bears and old computer motherboards wrapped in barbed wire and piled on the floor. "He says Fitzwilliam calls it '21st century Warholian commentary.'"

_Does he now?_ Perverse interest aside, Darcy was the main reason Elizabeth had agreed to join Jane at this strange evening of performance art. Her date with some cozy flannel pajamas and Netflixwas postponed when Charles' meetings ran late. Rather than picking her up, he'd asked Jane to meet him in the city for Annabella DeBourgh's exhibition of "Mute Anger." Elizabeth had been reluctant to give up her evening of binge-watching _House of Cards,_ but quickly set it aside when she learned the artist was Darcy's cousin. Not that she wanted to see _him_. But he was such an unknowable, elusive, strange creature, and this cousin sounded even odder. God only knew what other eccentric Eurotrash might show up. Maybe even the sister he'd once mentioned, the one who'd picked the name Princess Coconut for a dog.

Elizabeth and Jane gathered with the rest of the crowd behind a knee-high barbed-wire enclosure and watched a waif-like woman stretch and grimace and yawn, then hold stock-still before performing, and holding, a back bend. She then climbed into an impossibly small crate and pulled a black shroud over it. Some kind of viscous liquid seeped out from underneath it and puddled onto the small stage.

Elizabeth looked up from the mess on the floor and met the steady, mortified gaze of Fitzwilliam Darcy. She felt herself blushing. Furious at her reaction, Elizabeth pulled her eyes away from his, crossed her arms and concentrated on the disaster unfolding in front of her. Jane kept making little murmuring sounds. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." Elizabeth realized that those three words seemed to be a mantra, gasped under the collective breath of the assembled crowd. She looked across at Darcy, his head tilted as a goateed man said something in his ear. He grimaced and his nostrils flared.

_Typical,_ she thought. _Can't even find the humor in his own cousin's exhibition._

Darcy was, in fact, embarrassed. He wasn't expecting to see Elizabeth. When he'd met Charles for lunch earlier in the week, he'd only mentioned Annabella's "performance" in passing, but leave it to Charles—a great believer in all things family—to show up, and help fill up, the space. Darcy was appalled by his cousin's avocation. It was amazing what money and a prominent name could buy for an aimless young woman who'd spent far too many years navel-gazing and being indulged by a well-endowed trust fund. Of course, Annabella wasn't the only young woman, or young man, to pursue artistic paths without talent, guidance or discernment. She just happened to be the only one he was related to. He crossed his arms and tried to block out the performance as well as the acerbic narration Rich was whispering in his ear.

At the end of Annabella's 15-minute performance, she held up a sign instructing everyone to mill about and abuse her paintings as instructed. Scissors, knives, duct tape and Sharpies hung from strings attached at the tops of distorted reproductions of 18th and 19th century portraits. Darcy took a deep breath, trying not to overtly show his disgusted bewilderment as the crowd milled about and began defacing the artwork.

He stood still, noting that Elizabeth alone seemed to have accompanied Jane and Bingley. No chiseled-cheekbone musclemen were in sight. He moved toward the trio, trailed by Rich, whose on-and-off girlfriend, Michelle, had smartly chosen a massage appointment over performance art and would meet him later for dinner. He watched as Jane pulled out her phone and moved away from the group.

"My god, Darcy. What the hell was that?" Charles burst out. "I mean," he said more quietly, "I know Annabella is trying to make a splash on the art scene, but I don't get it."

Rich laughed and clapped Charles on the back. "I don't think you're supposed to, my man. Anna has an audience of one, and she certainly captured her attention." He nodded toward a short, elegant woman whose vibrant purple power suit stood out in the sea of black-garbed fashionistas. "In case you haven't had the pleasure, that is my Aunt Catherine, Annabella's mother."

He looked toward Elizabeth and smiled. "Richard Fitzwilliam. Long-suffering cousin to the artist. I don't believe we've met?"

Before he'd had a chance to greet her himself, Darcy found himself introducing Elizabeth to his cousin.

"Aha, the famous sock police! Your reputation precedes you, Elizabeth!" Rich laughed. "I can't believe my cousin passed your inspection. Better yet, I can't believe he sat still for it. He's notoriously prickly, you know," he said in a stage whisper.

Elizabeth grinned and glanced at Darcy, who affected a long-suffering mien and said quietly, "I'm standing right here, you know."

She looked back and forth between the two men. Both were tall, but Darcy was slimmer and his dark eyes, wavy chestnut hair and somber expression made an interesting contrast to the more robust Rich's mirthful eyes, dark red hair, and perfectly groomed mustache and goatee.

"How are you, Elizabeth?" Darcy asked. "Have you been well?"

"Busy, but very well, yes. And you?" She looked expectantly at Darcy and saw his sober mien soften. She hated that he was so handsome.

"As you, busy but very well. Traveling a bit much."

"Oh." _Jet-setting?_ _Does he want me to ask where so he can talk about his private plane?_

"So, Elizabeth," Rich broke in. "How did you puncture my cousin's notable reserve?"

"You mean his ego?" Elizabeth shrugged and observed the bewilderment cross one man's face and the amusement bursting on the other's. "I have to ask you, Richard. Does your cousin ever smile? Make small talk? Eat with his fingers?"

"Excuse me?" Darcy said. _Small talk? That's all we did for an hour before she kissed me._

"You used a fork to eat nachos. Who does that?"

"What? No, I didn't." Darcy paused, confused. "When?"

"She's right, Darce." Bingley guffawed. "At the football game, you were scooping up the cheese with a spoon and pushing the chips onto a fork!"

"It was…it was messy. The chips were…."

"Orange." Elizabeth said. Bingley laughed and wandered off toward Jane, now across the room talking with a mutual acquaintance.

She looked up at Darcy, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "You really do have a thing about that color, don't you?" Their eyes met and her smile faded as she saw his furrowed brows. "Well, it was a bit messy, I suppose."

Rich, whose head had been moving back and forth as at a Ping-Pong match, burst out laughing. "Wow. Sorry I missed that. Way to behave among the masses, Darcy."

"I seem to recall your telling me that you hated orange, Elizabeth," Darcy said lightly.

"Fitzwilliam, a moment!"

Darcy closed his eyes upon hearing his aunt's shrill voice. "Excuse me," he said quietly, opening his eyes to focus on Elizabeth. He slowly walked over to Annabella and her mother.

Rich looked at Elizabeth. "Join me for a drink at the bar? I promise, Annabella hasn't booby-trapped the cocktails."

_Oh, now this guy is nothing like his dour cousin,_ Elizabeth thought, nodding._ He's a charmer_. Within five minutes, Rich had gleaned that she was in marketing, knew about current affairs and literature, and could name the starting lineup of last year's Yankees.

"Please," he said, pressing his card into Elizabeth's hand. "I don't want to pester you for yours, so you take my number. I have seriously great seats and I can't always use them. It's your choice—pick a game with me or take your friends."

Rich squeezed her hand. "It was lovely to meet you. Sorry, though, I have to go. I have dinner plans, but first," he said, nodding his head toward Annabella, Darcy and his aunt, "duty calls. I must forge into the headwaters and say my goodbyes. Be in touch, all right?"

He took a step and then turned around, an odd expression on his face. "Keep an eye on my cousin, won't you? You seem to be one of the only people here he knows, and he might need you to rescue him from strangers. Or family." He winked and moved away.

_Elizabeth Bennet, white knight, rescues Fitzwilliam Darcy, damsel in distress._ Elizabeth muffled a giggle and looked at Rich's card. _Hmm, the UN. Flexing his diplomatic skills here too._ The two cousins seemed like yin and yang to her. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Darcy seemed to need someone to balance his unbearable darkness of being. She wondered if he was really upset about being teased about his aversion to orange. She'd do her best not to wave a carrot at him. And when did she tell him she didn't like orange? She didn't remember that conversation.

While he was immersed in his aunt's recital of complaints against his person, Darcy had kept one eye on Rich and Elizabeth. As Rich neared, he finally saw an opportunity to extricate himself from his relations. He shot his cousin a dark look when he saw Elizabeth looking at the card Rich had handed her. _Bloody hell. He never stops charming pretty girls._

"Say hello to your girlfriend for me, Rich," Darcy said. He put his half-empty glass on a table and walked toward Elizabeth.

"I thought we'd gotten past our mutual misunderstanding about orange."

Elizabeth smiled up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Perhaps, though you seem a bit confused about my affection for orange. I must say," she added, "you have so many amusing habits that bear further inquiry."

"And in my cousin, you've found a new comrade with whom to make sport of me?"

She tapped the card against his lapel. "He works at the UN? He seems um, less diplomatic than I would have expected." _And he lacks a proper British accent._

"He wasn't in uniform. His tact and manners seems to be woven into its fabric. Take it off and he's a loose cannon."

"Which sinks ships," Elizabeth said slowly. She looked at him, wrinkling her brow in thought. "We've had this conversation before, I think."

_She has the most beautiful, intelligent eyes_, Darcy thought. There were flecks of gold in the irises and her lashes seemed naturally thick. And they just sparkled. _God, she was beguiling._

Elizabeth wasn't sure if she should be amused or offended by the once-over he was giving her. Boarding school manners but no one taught him not to stare? Finally, feeling a bit of a blush coming on from his intense attention, she asked, "Where's your date? Miss Bertram, was it?"

"What?" He shrugged. "Last week? She wasn't my date. She's… no one."

"Really? She seemed quite familiar with you." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Come on, a rich hot blonde? I thought they were lined up whenever you want one."

He stared at her, aghast. "I don't know what you're talking about, Elizabeth. Are you referring to that stupid joke Charles made?"

"A joke? Are you telling me you came alone tonight?"

"Did you?"

They stared at each other. Elizabeth had never noticed that his eyes were gray, a dark stormy gray framed by the kind of thick lashes she could only achieve with a little help from Bobbi Brown's lushest mascara. His eyes burned into hers. Suddenly she felt his fingers on her arm, running down to her wrist. "Elizabeth, I think you misunderstand me."

"I don't think so." She felt a spreading warmth on her arm and tried to pulled it away.

Darcy shook his head and grasped her wrist. "We never talked…you never talked—."

_Oh, it's my fault you cut and ran? And you wonder why I don't want to talk?_ Elizabeth frowned. "No…I think we're clear."

He stared at her, his brow furrowed. "Why do you always end this conversation?"

Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and sighed. His words from that night rang in her ears. _"This is wrong. We can't do this."_

"It seems like the right thing to do," she said. "Talking makes it far more complicated than it needs to be. Needed to be."

"Is it that complicated?" His hand slid from her arm and clasped her fingers; his eyes bore into hers. "I just want to have a conversation with you. Tonight, over dinner?"

_Dammit. _Elizabeth had no idea what to say but his intensity was compelling. Gradually, the warmth that his hand had stirred in her dissipated and loud, heated voices from the other side of the room overwhelmed them. She watched Darcy close his eyes and take a deep breath.

"Fuck. Excuse me. Please don't leave."

He backed away, then turned and stalked to other side of the room, where his aunt was in a loud argument with the gallery owner over the mess created by Annabella's chaotic audience participation. She watched him hunch over and grab his aunt's hand as it jabbed at the gallery owner's chest. _He's in charge of everybody's business, isn't he? _

Elizabeth walked over to Jane, and let her know she was off to find the ladies' room. Her sister didn't pick up on her cue to accompany her there, so Elizabeth walked alone to the stairwell; she'd remembered the Keith Haring-like signage there denoting restrooms. The stairs were crowded with bemused gallery-goers, weighing in on Annabella's performance before they headed off to the next big thing. Elizabeth used the restroom, then walked outside for some fresh air. She decided to text Charlotte; perhaps she could ask her to be her "emergency phone call" to save her from Darcy at an agreed-upon time. _If_ she decided to go with him. Just in case.

"Well, Elizabeth Bennet. What are you doing here, singles slumming at the galleries?" The smooth, knowing voice startled her.

"George?" Elizabeth tucked her phone into her bag and stared at the blinding smile of George Wickham. "What are you doing here?"

"I mentioned that I knew Darcy, right? I know his cousin, the _artiste_, too. I wanted to come support her, um, coming out."

He looked at Elizabeth, who was stifling a giggle. "Oh, I missed it, didn't I? She already emerged from her cocoon?"

"Oh, she definitely spread her wings," Elizabeth laughed. "Her mother seems pretty irked."

"Oh Lord. Catherine is here?" George leaned closer to Elizabeth. "So if all the fun is already over, how about you and I go get a drink? And I don't mean coffee this time," he added while tugging on her hand.

"Get your hands off of her."

Elizabeth whirled around at the low, angry sound of Darcy's voice. He looked furious, his face flushed. "You heard me, Wickham. Get the fuck out of here."

George let go of Elizabeth's hand. "Oh now, Darcy. Be reasonable. You just have to have every beautiful woman in New York, don't you?"

Her head shot up and Elizabeth fixed her eyes on George. He was pale and looked defiant, but the edge in his voice held a slight quaver.

Darcy, who had been holding onto the door handle, let it go and moved toward them. "I won't ask you again. Get. Out. Of. Here. Now."

George put his hand on his chest and bent his head to Elizabeth. "He's in a mood. Be careful, Lizzy." He turned and sauntered away. "Call me if you're up for that drink."

She watched him walk away and then, feeling Darcy's looming presence, turned around. He was breathing heavily, and clenching his fists.

"What's with the caveman act?"

"What?"

"Were you going to hit him?"

He scoffed. "I've tried that. Doesn't work. He just keeps coming back, like a bad penny."

Elizabeth's eyes flared. "He wasn't coming here to start a fight. He wanted to see the performance."

"Like hell he did." Darcy stared at her, his face cold. "You were going to go out with him?"

"He's a friend."

"No." Darcy was looking even angrier, almost wild. Elizabeth took a step back. "He's—, he is not a man to befriend, Elizabeth. He is not a good man."

"I meet a lot of men, Darcy. He's certainly not among the worst. He has nice manners."

"Yes, I've noticed you know a lot of men, Elizabeth. Fond of athletic types, are you?"

Her jaw dropped. Elizabeth was dumbfounded and insulted, and tired of all the work it took to have a conversation with this man. "Yes," she said icily. "And they're all more pleasant company than you are."

_Dammit._ "Elizabeth, please," Darcy in an urgent voice. "That didn't come out right. I'd really like to talk with you."

She shook her head, pulled out her phone and sent Jane a quick text, then walked to the curb to hail a cab.

"Then let me take you home. I have a car here. Please."

Those dark eyes were beseeching her. _He knows he screwed up_, she thought. _Too bad._

"No, thank you. I live in Jersey, too far out of your comfort zone."

Darcy stood silently and watched Elizabeth step off the curb and walk toward a slowing cab. _Nothing ever went right with her._


	7. Chapter 7

_Done the galleries tour, now it's time for fun at the ballpark. And then, well, I've been called out and rightfully so for some minor cliffhangers. If I warn you that a number of our characters spend some time in a place called Hunsford, would that require a heads-up? Maybe. Thanks to everyone for their wonderful comments. I'm glad this D&E are making people happy. _

**Chapter 7**

"Elizabeth Bennet, welcome to the cheap seats!" Richard Fitzwilliam caught Elizabeth's hand and pulled her further into the wood-paneled luxury lounge. Charlotte followed, eyes wide as she took in the vista.

_And I thought UM's boxes were nice. This is how the other half lives. _Elizabeth had thought Richard had said box _seats_, not box _suite_. Then she and Charlotte had been guided to a private elevator and found themselves up here. This was amazing, like sitting in a stunningly furnished penthouse with a million-dollar view of the ballpark. Make that a multimillion view. _Wow_. She sank into one of the thick leather armchairs and gratefully accepted a glass of wine from the server.

"Hello there. I'm Richard Fitzwilliam. You must be the BFF?" Rich smiled at Charlotte, who was watching him with a bemused stare.

"That's me. Charlotte Lucas, BFF slash fashion advisor to Elizabeth Bennet."

Elizabeth elbowed her. "Fashion advisor? Try financial tyrant."

"Prepare to be shocked, Richard. I'm an accountant." Charlotte popped a bacon-wrapped fig in her mouth and winked at him.

Rich burst out laughing. "Oh thank god. A _normal _person. I'd die happy if I never met another tortured artist or blogger who knows how to make amazing pesto _and_ set up a working peace plan for the Middle East."

"Oh dear, sounds as though you've been reading my Tweets," Charlotte said. She didn't miss Rich's raised eyebrows.

"So Richard, this is lovely. Is this the UN box?" Elizabeth asked. A few small groups of people, in their seats or milling about in the exterior area, were speaking a smattering of languages indecipherable to her untrained ears.

"No, it's the Fitzwilliam box. Or the Darcy box. Depends on who you ask."

_Sweet mother of god. They own this? _Elizabeth cleared her throat. "Darcy? Why would an Englishman have a box at Yankee Stadium?"

"It was his mother's box," he replied, sipping his beer. "She was an American. Loved baseball; used to take us to games at the old stadium. If Darcy weren't out of town, he'd be here today. He hates missing Opening Day. Lucky for you and me," Richard chuckled, "he's not here so you're in his seats."

_Baseball, hmm._ _He didn't seem to like college football. Not highbrow enough, I suppose._ Elizabeth was happy Darcy wasn't there. Figuring out his cousin was enough of a challenge. Though amused by Richard, she was a bit wary of his bonhomie, and couldn't quite gauge his interest in her. She found it odd he'd invited her and a plus one to this game. After all, he seemed like a guy who already had a world of friends to invite to Opening Day at Yankee Stadium. Her father would be appalled at her betrayal of his long-ingrained allegiance to the Mets, but, she assured herself, this was business. And here _she_ was, despoiling Darcy's sainted seats.

"Darcy gets in tonight. We'll likely get together tomorrow with the dogs."

"Princess Coconut?"

"Oh, have you met her? Sweet dog."

"It's nice he let his sister name her," Elizabeth said. "Or is Coco her dog and he's just the dutiful brother?"

Rich paused, and took a sip of his beer. "All of the above," he said slowly. He thought a moment and glanced at their fellow suitemates. "Quite dutiful, actually.

"It would've been good for him to be here, and not just because his French is better than mine," Rich added. "Other than work, I'm afraid he's been at loose ends lately. I've been a bit busy with my girlfriend, or was until last week. Separate ways. New avenues. New interests, and all that."

"How very diplomatic you are, Mr. Fitzwilliam."

Rich had the decency to blush. "Michelle and I had a lovely time together, but she's been posted to Mumbai and neither of us does the distance thing well."

"You're a diplomat, doesn't that automatically qualify you as a frequent-flying jetsetter?" Elizabeth thought he looked rather like a human GI Joe doll.

"I'm a city boy at heart," he confessed. "Darcy's the one who's always jetting around. Mostly London, but he's in Berlin and Paris quite a bit."

Elizabeth sipped her wine, wondering if she should ask a few of the questions she'd had since meeting George. She plunged in. "Your cousin's from London originally, isn't he? Hence the accent and the manners?"

"You mean the strange affectation of using flatware and drinking tea?"

Elizabeth reddened at that gentle reminder of her teasing his cousin.

Richard noted her pink cheeks and went on. "He's been here for years. Still has the houses there but he prefers the anonymity of New York."

"Houses?" said Charlotte.

"Anonymity?" said Elizabeth. "Is he a member of the royal family or a fading Brit pop star we've never heard of?"

It took a minute for Richard's laughter to die down and answer. "My, you do have spunk. The Darcy lineage is ancient…been there for centuries." Noting that both women were listening intently, he continued. "My father's little sister, Anne, left America behind after college, took a job in London and met and married Arthur Darcy.

"It was love at first sight, according to family folklore. A love match, as were my parents. Quite a challenge for their children to live up to."

"You believe such a thing is possible? A perfect match?" Elizabeth asked doubtfully. _Didn't George say Darcy's mother was a party girl?_

"Yes, for some," Rich replied. He rubbed his jaw. "After one's sown one's wild oats, that is. Darcy might settle down if he met the right girl. The perfect girl. Like Charles and 'his angel.' He getting serious, says she's _the one_, but Darcy's a bit worried about it; she isn't anything like Charles' usual girlfriends. Darcy's warned him to be careful." Richard shook his head. "He's a cautious one. Always worried about consequences."

Charlotte stole a look at Elizabeth, whose narrowed eyes and clenched hands seemed to be holding in her anger.

"Hey, shall we move outside?" he said, gesturing to the high-backed cushioned seats filling up outside the box. "They're singing the national anthem."

During the fifth inning, the women found their way to the plush restroom. Charlotte, an inveterate collector—or kleptomaniac, according to her friends—was thrilled to pocket a tiny bar of Yankees soap to add to the mints she'd already slipped into her purse. She still mourned the demise of signature matchbooks.

"Wow, he's a chatty one," Elizabeth said, leaning against the sink and watching Charlotte fix her contact lens. "How did Mr. Loose Lips ever make it as a diplomat in the foreign service?"

Charlotte blinked and examined her eyes in the mirror. "Oh, I don't think he ever says anything unintentional, Lizzy."

"Right. He rambles on and on about his cousin and just what the hell was that? Is Darcy trying to break up Jane and Charles? As if she isn't good enough?" _The Bennet girls aren't good enough for him or his friends? Consequences? Oh yeah, he's definitely worried about those. _

She shook her head as his words came back. _"This is wrong. We can't do this." _

"Richard didn't say that! He just said Charles hasn't always been realistic in his relationships and Darcy wants him to be cautious." Charlotte leaned toward the mirror and smoothed down a cowlick. "Besides, it sounds like Darcy has reason to be cautious. Houses? Ancient family lands? A Yankees' luxury suite?"

"Darcy's a player, Charlotte! He sent me flowers because he insulted me and now he's determined to add me to his little black book. I guess he thinks I'm easy." Elizabeth crossed her arms and glowered. "Darcy's the sleazy one. He slept with George's fiancée. He better not screw with Jane and Charles."

Charlotte turned and stared at her friend. "Think about it, Lizzy. Richard might be a chatty ginger, but he's a sweetheart. And he and Charles are awfully protective of Darcy. He can't be all bad, right?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"You liked the flowers, Lizzy. And why is this George guy is the font of all wisdom?" Charlotte said. "He must be flawless. If you're not going to date him, introduce him to me. My mother is on my case about grandchildren."

The fleeting thought that perhaps Darcy wasn't so very bad lingered in Elizabeth's mind throughout the next few days. He was kind to animals and helpful when she hurt her ankle. Charles liked him. And the flowers he'd had delivered after his rude comments at his cousin's horrible art performance was a nice, albeit necessary, gesture. But he was a snob who slept around and had an emotional on-off switch that he flipped far too easily. What she knew of his parents, and what she had observed of his cousins, could explain his moodiness and arrogance. Moneyed privilege had its price. But not everyone had deep pockets; some people had to just deal with what life handed them. She'd emerged just fine from her mother's virtual desertion and her father's preoccupation with his new family, right? She was emotionally healthy and good at forming solid relationships, right? It didn't say anything about her social life that her last kiss, perhaps the best kiss of her life, had been from Fitzwilliam Darcy. No, she decided, it did not.

After Wednesday morning, when she told George about her day at the Yankees' game, she was furious with herself for even granting Darcy a second thought. George's face turned cold, then angry, on hearing of her afternoon in the Darcy box. Finally his expression softened as he explained why none of his calls to his friends in the Yankees' organization had been returned.

"God, they really are a vile bunch," George said. "It's my fault your book won't have any of the Bronx Bombers, Liz." He stirred more sugar into his coffee and sighed heavily. "He's screwing over both of us."

"What are you talking about?" she asked carefully.

"It's because of me that Darcy told them not to talk to you," he said, his sad eyes boring into hers. "I'm so sorry, Liz."

~%~

"Man, it's a beautiful day." Rich pointed toward the white sails skimming across the Conservatory Lake. "Bet you ten bucks that skiff wins the race."

His cousin laughed quietly and eyed the water. "That skiff?" Can you be more specific? You mean _that_ tall white one or _that _tall white one?"

"Geez, Darcy. You simply will never be a New Yorker if you don't learn to bet. No sport is complete without a wager."

"Vegas is for betting, not to mention debauchery, Rich. I'm happy to wager, but I prefer there be realistic odds." He pointed at a squirrel. "Let's see if Coco chases it. I'd lay down $5 that she won't."

Rich snorted. "Ha, that just because you know she's given up the chase and would rather chew on some store-bought toy than some flea-bitten Central Park vermin." He looked at his own dog. "Young Studley here could take that squirrel in thirty seconds."

"For god's sake, give that dog a normal name."

"He has a normal name. He just doesn't answer to it. He prefers Studley." As if on cue, the Doberman Pinscher turned and looked up at the men.

"The truth hurts." Darcy nodded. He glanced down at his own dog, her brown coat laced with gray and her steps slower as they neared the small lake. He pointed to an empty bench. "Let's take a breather, all right?"

He pulled a wadded nylon ball from his pocket and unfolded it; he set it on the ground by Coco's nose and poured some water into it. "There you go, girl."

Rich held back his own dog and watched Coco slowly lap up the water. "Coco's looks great. Good call on the surgery." He cleared his throat. "She still the only lady gracing your bed?"

"From gambling to dogs to sex, eh?" Darcy pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. "Your multitasking mind is in a rut, Rich. You still dating your way alphabetically through the delegations? Was it the Maldives or Ukraine you so enjoyed exploring?"

"Hey now," Rich snorted. "I'm a professional. I'm not in the habit of sleeping my way around the UN." He sat back on the bench and crossed his arms. "Michelle is off to Mumbai, so my happiness might be at an end," he sighed. "Though I had a lovely lady beside me yesterday at the game."

"Ah, opening day. How was it?" Darcy leaned over and scratched Coco's ears.

"You mean _who_ was it? You already how it was. The Yankees won 8-3. …But _who_ it was, was Elizabeth Bennet. The one at Annabella's fiasco."

Darcy froze as Rich's words slowly sank in. _How? Her? Him?_ He sat up and stared at the sails on the miniature sailboats whipping around the lake. "How did that come about?" he said in a flat voice.

"She's a Yankees fan. Never had good seats before, so she was thrilled to sit in the box." He glanced at Darcy. "You never told her we have box seats?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Darcy let out a breath. "I don't know her well enough to have had that conversation."

"Really? That's not the impression I had. She seemed to know you pretty well. She's met Coco. She knew Georgie named her." He looked carefully at Darcy. "But does she—?"

"Are you going to see her again?" Darcy asked. He missed seeing Rich's expression shift from confusion to amused incredulity.

"Tragically, no. I believe she found me dashing and brilliant and a helluva fun guy, but I'm not the man of her dreams." Rich glanced over slyly. "Her BFF, Charlotte, on the other hand, might be a good time."

_Man of her dreams? She's had quite a selection to choose from... _"Charlotte was there too?"

"Sure. I didn't want her to feel like it was a date or anything."

Darcy continued to stare in the distance, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

"We had a wonderful time. Her book project sounds pretty interesting."

"Whose? Charlotte's?"

"No, Elizabeth's."

"What are you talking about?" Darcy said. "She's in marketing. She just earned her master's."

"Yes, but she's doing some book project for her boss."

Darcy squinted his eyes, thinking back. A vague memory from his Christmas Eve visit to Queens crept in. "_A love story." That book? _He cleared his throat. "What book?"

"I don't think they've settled on the title yet. Something about athletes and their childhood heroes. There's a bunch of Olympians, some football and basketball players, soccer gods. She played in college, did you know that? Oh, and get this," Richard barked in outrage. "She's got a Dodger and a Brave, but no Yankees! What the hell? I would have offered but the book is basically done."

_Athletes. Huge guys with rippling muscles. Of course_.

He'd felt terrible about his comment at the gallery. His parting shot. _"Yes, I've noticed you know a lot of men, Elizabeth."_

God, he hadn't meant for it to come out the way it did, but she kept showing up everywhere with a different man. What was that about? The book? Was she dating them? Is that why she wouldn't talk about the elephant in the room—their night together, five very long and very confusing months ago? Because of them? Darcy hated, _hated _that he might be just like those other guys: Briefly interesting. Disposable. Forgettable.

What he couldn't forget were the unkind words he said to her at the gallery. Elizabeth was unlikely to forget them too. So he'd asked Charles where in New Jersey she and Jane lived, and sent flowers to their apartment in Little Silver. Just a simple spring arrangement of wildflowers. Those seemed right for her. She liked to walk and explore nature, after all.

He hoped she liked them. He hadn't expected her to call and thank him, but he hoped his peace offering would smooth things when they next met. It would likely be next weekend; he'd already bought a table for a dinner and passed on some tickets to Charles while hinting that he'd like to know Jane a bit better. Now he felt like a stalker, when all he really wanted was some closure. That's all. He also wanted to know how she knew George Wickham. He winced. What was that prick doing near _her_? Not even Richard knew that story; what could he say to Elizabeth to warn her away from him?

"Darcy? Earth to Darcy?"

"Hmm? Sorry. I think I'm a bit jet-lagged."

"Well, I was saying that our mutual friend seems quite lovely," Rich said. "I'm sorry I won't get to know her as well as I'd like to."

"Why is that?"

"I don't think I'm her type." He paused and added in a dramatic voice, "Shame, really. She truly knows the game."

~%~

It was supposed to be an intimate gathering for a dozen foodies, but this edition of Dinner Lab had grown into an unwieldy event for triple that number. The crowd milled about the former Hunsford food court in the shuttered South Street Seaport mall, ready to shell out $300 each for a seven-course meal cooked by former Gramercy Tavern chef Mario Rodriguez.

Elizabeth, though not too sure about her escort for the evening—one of Charles' deep-pocketed clients needed a date—was excited to once again see how the other half lived, this time by joining Charles and Jane at the members-only roving dinner club. However, dressing up for free gourmet food at the possible expense of her dignity had become a questionable tradeoff. She glanced at her "date," Bill Collins. Apparently he was a programming genius, but sadly, he also exhibited every bad stereotype of such a guy: pale, balding, with thick glasses and hunched shoulders. The glasses, he earnestly assured Elizabeth, would be gone in another month when he had his Lasix surgery. And the Rogaine would kick in soon. _Don't count your_ _chickens before they hatch,_ she thought, glancing up at the oversized clock hanging overhead. _I'll be long gone before then. In precisely two hours. _As long as she didn't watch him chew, she could handle his company. The food smelled so good and the seaport looked so beautiful, it was worth it.

The four sat at their table, making small talk and awaiting the two other couples due to join them. The Knightleys, a handsome couple from the Upper East Side, soon arrived and quickly began bickering about the opera they'd attended the previous night. Bill snorted and leaned closer to Elizabeth, muttering "love birds." Elizabeth immediately bent her head to Jane's and whispered, "You owe me dark chocolate. For a month."

"Elizabeth, I'll go fetch us a plate of those little crusty noodle things. Would you care for anything else?" Bill stood up and smiled at her, blinking rapidly as his eyes focused on her chest. "Another cocktail, perhaps?"

Elizabeth dismissed her date with a wave and glared at Jane. "He's trying to get me drunk," she whispered furiously. "Make that two months of chocolate. And a massage."

"Hello, darlings," a voice squealed. Elizabeth froze and turned around slowly, looking first to the floor for the tell-tale Jimmy Choo heels. Oh yes, it was Caroline, accompanied by a familiar pair of expensive black loafers. Her eyes drifted upward as her ears tried to drown out Caroline's effusive praise for the event.

"Oh my, Eliza Bennet. Don't you clean up…well." Caroline smiled weakly and peered closely at Elizabeth. "That dress looks nearly as nice this year as it did on the racks two years ago."

"Well thank you so very much, Caroline. As does yours. TJ Maxx, right?"

Various snorting sounds were heard behind Charles' napkin.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

And there he was, in dark gray trousers, a black shirt and a black jacket. The man in black. Wearing the same pair of overpriced Italian shoes as when they'd first met. Looking thinner, perhaps a bit tired, but glowing with intensity.

"Hello, Darcy. How are you?"

"Well, thank you. And you?"

"Fine."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it."

Charles sighed loudly. "Oh sit down, for god's sake. My neck hurts looking up at you."

Darcy helped Caroline into a chair and took the empty one beside Elizabeth. "This isn't quite the way I'd hoped to have dinner with you," he said quietly.

"Trust me, this isn't the way I wanted to have dinner with anyone." Elizabeth took a sip of water and turned to look at her new seatmate. "Are you good with your fists or do you prefer swords or pistols?"

"Pardon?" Darcy bit back a smile; she was parrying with him already. The flowers had been a good idea.

"I'm afraid you might be challenged to a duel." She flashed him a smile and raised her eyebrows.

Darcy tilted his head toward her. "A choice of weapons? I wouldn't suspend any pleasure of yours."

Elizabeth bit her lip and looked over his head.

"Excuse me, that's my seat." Bill Collins stood behind Darcy, balancing two plates piled with food; a bottle of Stella Artois stuck out of either jacket pocket.

Darcy turned around slowly and eyed Collins.

"_You're_ with Elizabeth?" he asked. Collins nodded. Darcy looked at Elizabeth.

"You're with _him_?" he said in a low voice which betrayed his disbelief.

"Would you prefer George Wickham?" she replied pertly, her eyebrows raised.

"I can explain that," Darcy said evenly.

"Hey Bill," Charles reached behind Jane and tapped Bill's arm. "There's an empty seat by my sister, Caroline."

"But, but…" Bill's head swiveled back and forth. He sighed and carried his overflowing plates to the empty seat beside Caroline. He set one sagging plate there and put the other in front of the horrified woman. A small bit of gooey cheese dripped onto her Michael Kors bag. Darcy felt an urgent squeeze on his arm and an angry hiss in his ear, "Get him away from me."

"Er, sorry, Caroline. If you'd care to mingle a bit, I noticed your old friend, Chet Pingry, at the bar."

Caroline seized her bag and disappeared. Bill picked up the plate that had been intended for Elizabeth and began scraping scallops and endive and gnocchi onto his own dish.

"Well, that was a bit awkward," Jane said quietly.

"You think?" Elizabeth said. While she certainly didn't want to spend an evening with Bill Collins chewing in her ear, she thought Fitzwilliam Darcy was one rich, officious jerk for taking the man's seat. Even if he did smell better. _And look better,_ she reluctantly admitted to herself.

Suddenly Bill cleared his throat. "I'm Bill Collins. Elizabeth's companion for the evening. And you are?"

Darcy nodded and thanked Bill for the seat. "I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Fitz—? Are you related to Annabella DeBourgh? She's brilliant!" Bill, his mouth full of spinach puffs, flushed with excitement. "I'm so sorry to have missed her event last month. You do know her motto, don't you? 'Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.' Brilliant."

"Wait a second," Charles said. "Isn't that from Dilbert?"

The Knightleys overheard the conversation and immediately engaged Collins in a spirited discussion of performance art and free will. Elizabeth listened for a moment, eyebrows raised. _What do you know, the man had depths_, she thought. Deeply buried under layers that needed lots of pruning and reshaping, but he'd obviously done more than simply skim the Arts & Leisure section of the _Times._

Darcy glanced at an amused Elizabeth. "I'm sorry your dinner was hijacked. May I get you a plate?"

"No, thank you," she replied. "I like to window shop."

She and Jane rose, and Darcy and Bingley followed them to the scattered serving stations. They returned with full plates, and the table's occupants, minus Caroline, spent a half-hour talking about the food, the theater, and Bingley's big idea for reviving some obscure `80s video games. Darcy mostly listened, enjoying the spirited banter between his best friend and Elizabeth. Elizabeth wondered why he made an effort to come to such a nice event only to sit around like a stodgy old man. As soon as Jane and Charles started sharing desserts—and forks—Elizabeth headed to the ladies' room. When she emerged, Collins awaited her.

"Elizabeth, what do you say we get out of here?" he said eagerly, slurring his words a bit. "Charles said you live in Jersey. I can show you the city. Have you been to the top of the Empire State Building? New York's grid system is fascinating to see at night."

"Um, not since I was five years old," she said, slowly. He was no one she wanted to spend time with, especially when he was obviously inebriated, but his business—probably his friendship—was important to Charles. She stared at the bits of dried cream sauce in the corners of his lips. _God, Bennet, think of something. Quickly._

Bill smiled and shrugged. "We've barely had a chance to talk. I'd like to know more about you. I hear you're an athlete," he said thickly, liquor slurring his attempt at a suave demeanor. "Perhaps you could give me some advice on working out?"

Involuntarily, her eyes immediately swept his physique. It looked plenty built up to her, just in all the wrong places, especially his midsection. Tonight's overindulgence in high-end beers was obviously not an anomaly. Suddenly she felt his hand sliding up her arm. He squeezed her bicep.

"Oh my, you are buff," he said.

"Get your hands off of me. Now." Elizabeth shook her arm free and pulled back from Collins. "Bill, I hope you'll continue to do business with Charles, but you have no further business with me. You need to go home, alone, and sleep it off."

She wheeled around and walked outside to find some cooler air. She couldn't escape the feel of Bill's moist hand on her arm and his breath in her face.

"Are you all right?" Another voice, deeper and with a British accent, came from behind her.

_Dammit. Seriously? _

Darcy had been standing over at the espresso bar, his arm trapped by Caroline, his ears vaguely attuned to her vivid update on last week's social gossip, and his eyes trained on the ladies' room. He'd seen Elizabeth head in there a few minutes ago, and soon spotted Bill Collins hovering near the doorway. He'd felt terrible for her situation; Charles' whispered confirmation of Bill's client status and Elizabeth's unknowing role as his "date" both amused and horrified him. They clearly had divergent ideas about the evening, and Darcy hadn't appreciated the way Collins had been eyeing Elizabeth during the evening. Microbrews and fried bread puddings were not a good mix with his personality. After Elizabeth had risen from the table, Collins had disappeared. Darcy had excused himself and followed a moment later. He'd ended up standing with an over-served, highly caffeinated Caroline, but quickly pulled away from her when he saw Elizabeth trapped by Collins, his hand on her arm. Elizabeth had pushed him away and stalked off outside. Darcy had noted Collins watching her, confused and disappointed.

He'd walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Be smart, Bill. Get a cab and go home."

Then he'd headed outside and found Elizabeth with her arms crossed, leaning against the railing overlooking the boardwalk and looking up at the stars. "Are you all right?" Elizabeth stared at him. "I'm sorry, I saw he was waiting for you, and I wasn't sure if you might need a bit of backup."

She still didn't say anything and Darcy began to worry he'd come off as a stalker.

_Seriously?_ Elizabeth sighed. "I'm fine. He's just overenthusiastic and socially clueless." _Like many men_, she thought. "So what's the deal? Are you my new bodyguard, protecting me from men you disapprove of?"

Darcy nodded and gave her a rueful smile. "I suppose so."

"Look at that." He leaned closer to her and pointed up at the sky. "You can see actually see the Pleiades tonight."

"The Seven Sisters?"

"Right," he smiled, pleased but unsurprised she knew the constellations. "You don't always see so many stars…"

"…this close to the city." Their eyes met.

Elizabeth pulled her eyes away and pushed her hair behind her ear. "Collins isn't a long-lost Darcy cousin, is he?"

Darcy, shocked, shook his head. "God, no. Why would you ask that?"

"I'm just kidding. It just seems that whenever I see you, I run into one of your cousins. A DeBourgh here, a Fitzwilliam there." She stared off at the tall ships docked at the pier. So beautiful, so elegant, so full of history. "Your family has a luxury suite at Yankee Stadium. Wow."

"My cousin mentioned the game. I hope you enjoyed it, despite him."

She laughed. "Oh, he's a fun one. Quite a talker. You two are very different."

"I'm not much like any of my cousins."

"Your American cousins?"

"Any of them," he replied, turning around and leaning against the railing. "Are you going to see him again?"

"Richard? Not unless I need a tour of the UN. Or he offers up those extra seats again."

_My seats, actually,_ Darcy thought. He caught sight of Elizabeth, hair fluttering in the gentle breeze and her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Looking at him as she did that night at Netherfield. He took a deep breath.

"Elizabeth, I don't want to talk about my cousin. Or any of the men you've dated. I want to talk about us."

Elizabeth froze. _Us?_ Her eyes searched his, but the moonlight made it difficult to see his expression.

Darcy took a deep breath and reached toward her, brushing his finger against her cheek. "I think about you all the time."

He leaned forward and lightly touched his lips to hers. Elizabeth held still until his gentle but insistent pressure overtook her waning resistance, then her mouth gave way. Darcy melted into her, one hand weaving through her thick locks, the other wrapped around her waist and pulling her body nearer to his. This was what he wanted. Her, in his arms. Nothing had ever felt more right, and the clarity of his thinking in this moment, when his senses were overtaking his emotions and his legs were trembling, startled him. He moaned as his tongue touched hers.

Suddenly she pushed at his chest. "What are you doing?! Oh my god."

Darcy put his hand on her cheek. "I'm kissing you. Again. Finally." He pulled her to him but Elizabeth yanked herself away.

"No. I'm not doing this. Not with you."

His hands fell away from her. His head snapped back as though she'd slapped him. "Not with me? What does that mean?"

"You know what it means," Elizabeth spat out.

"No, I don't. Ever since you checked my socks at that football game, you've been flirting with me. Teasing me."

"Flirting with you? Are you insane?"

_Maybe, _he thought_._ "I know you were upset about what didn't happen at Netherfield, but I can't stop thinking about it. About you."

"Seriously? And you think I'm pining away?"

"I don't know what you're thinking. You're on the arm of a different man every time I see you. I want you to be on mine. Am I so different?"

"_I'm_ on the arm of a different guy?" Elizabeth's eyes flared. "What the hell is your problem anyway? When you're not cold as ice, you're sleeping around with women who meet your exacting standards. So what do you mean, 'she's no one.' What's the problem, didn't she go to a good enough school for you? Was it one of the 'lesser' Ivies?!"

"She?" Darcy asked, bewildered. "Who are you talking about?"

"Lost track? That Bertram chick." Elizabeth glared at him, trying to read his expression but his face was half-hidden in the shadows. "It doesn't matter. I've heard about you." _Consequences!_

"You've heard what? From whom? Charles' stupid jokes again? Or my cousin?"

Darcy took a deep breath. "My god, Elizabeth. We spent hours talking at Netherfield. We shared things…" he said haltingly.

"I remember," she spat. "You had my shirt off and you walked away. I wasn't good enough for you then but I am now? Me, the state college girl, who wears orange and black to cheer on her team? Now, when you think I sleep with anything that moves, you want me? Geez, do you want names, just to be sure they measure up?"

He stared at her. "No, it's—that's none of my business, it doesn't matter now."

"Now? As opposed to when?" She was breathing fire. "Who are you to judge anyone? You treat everyone like they're beneath you. You're telling Charles to be careful and not rush things with Jane?! Like you have a clue about people? You ruined George's life for the fun of it?"

Darcy's eyes widened. "What makes you think you can say these things to me?" He flushed as her final words sank in. "My god, are you seeing him? Are you sleeping with him?" He couldn't believe it of her, he didn't want to think Elizabeth guilty of anything but hasty judgment. She wasn't stupid. She couldn't be so gullible as to fall victim to a Wickham's charms.

"That's none of your business, remember? But go ahead and judge me anyway." Elizabeth stared at him as he bit his lip and furrowed his brow while she vented her frustration and anger. "All those men you've seen me with are nothing but friends or business relationships. And all of them have been gentlemen. You could learn a lot from them."

He stared at her, his face drained of color.

"I just don't get you," she said in a hushed voice. "You're capable of more but you don't even try. You worry about consequences but you care more about a dog's dietary habits than you do about people's feelings."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Your actions have consequences for other people too. It's not all about you."

Darcy squeezed his eyes shut. He was breathing hard, trying to regain some semblance of control but he couldn't, not yet. His voice was subdued when he finally spoke. "I misjudged you. Again. I saw your joyful spirit, and the time I spent in your company made me happy. It made me feel things I hadn't felt for a very long time. I might not have expressed them well, but I have responsibilities, things, I have to think about. Of course I weigh consequences."

He stared hard into Elizabeth's eyes, beseeching her to hear him out.

"That evening…You weren't yourself that night, Elizabeth. I knew that then, and I thought only of our mutual self-respect. It was the right thing to do. I see now that I was wrong about knowing you. You were your better self that night, funny and warm and sweet. That's the Elizabeth Bennet I fell in love with. But I see now I never knew you at all. And you certainly don't know me."

Darcy rubbed his hand across his face. "I don't know why I ever thought we made sense." His lips moved but no more words followed. He nodded his head and moved off into the darkness. "Good night."

He left behind a wide-eyed, stunned and furious Elizabeth Bennet.

**Notes**

The meal was part of Dinner Lab, an experiment launched in New Orleans as a members-only roving dining club featuring meals from up-and-coming chefs. The concept has also expanded to Nashville, Los Angeles and Austin, Texas.

Bingley was right. That's a quote from the Dilbert cartoon creator, Scott Adams.

Pleaides. An open-star cluster easily seen in the night sky. In Greek mythology, it's referred to as the Seven Sisters (Maia, Electra, Taygete,Alcyone, Celaeno, Sterope and Merope), heavenly girls who had affairs with several of the most prominent male Olympian gods, including Zeus, Poseidon and Ares.

Lesser Ivies: A reference to a comment made by a U.S. senator who graduated from Princeton, but while at Harvard Law School, made it clear he wouldn't associate or study with those from what he called "the lesser Ivies." The Ivy League consists of eight colleges and universities in the northeast U.S.: Brown, Columbia, Cornell, Dartmouth, Harvard, Princeton, University of Pennsylvania, and Yale.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Hope it wasn't too long a wait for the post-Hunsford reveal. Lots of tears and self-recrimination and regret in this chapter, but I can only send out much thanks to all who have written me such wonderfully nice reviews.. And things will get better from here for ODC. Mostly. This is rock bottom._

**ASA Chapter 8**

_No. That did not just happen. No._

Darcy had managed to exit the Seaport with some semblance of his dignity still in place, collapse into the backseat of a cab, and mumble his address to the driver. He'd stared unseeing at the traffic lights, neon signs and bright store windows as he'd felt himself shutting down. He'd squeezed his eyes shut and slowly opened them. Whatever difference he'd been looking for, whatever change he'd hoped for, hadn't happened. His eyes had stung but they saw nothing.

"_I just don't get you." _

Was she mocking him? What didn't she get? That he'd fallen for her, months ago, helping her walk across a rainy field? But she hadn't known, hadn't had a clue. Somehow, over the past five months, he had managed to convey to her that he found her wanting, that she was nothing more than an ill-considered one-night stand, a tomboy tagalong to Jane and Charles, and a serial dater of muscular male athletes. How had that happened? How had he done that?

He remembered when he'd first known. She'd made him laugh that night, so many times. He hadn't always let her see it; he was too well-practiced at withholding his emotions and hiding his reactions, especially around women. But Elizabeth had sat there, her hair a mess, wrinkling her nose when she touched his bristly cheek, mocking his name as she'd once mocked his socks, prompting him to talk about his family and reveal bits of himself. All Darcy could think about was how much he'd wanted to know her, to kiss her, and then she'd kissed him. And then kissed him off the next morning. He hadn't thought she wanted to forget what had happened. He'd assumed that like him, she must have regretted what had happened, or what hadn't happened. Like him, she must have been denying, or grappling with, the feelings they stirred in each other. But now it was obvious she had not. They interpreted that night very differently, and they remembered what was said—and meant—very differently.

Did she remember anything they had talked about? Or just the aftermath, when he'd pulled away, ashamed of himself for taking advantage of her?

Jacket off and tie loosened, Darcy sat slumped on the couch, staring through the windows at the lights of the city. As the night wore on and the numbness wore off, warring emotions of humiliation and anger descended. _Oh my god. I told her I was in love with her? Oh my god. She believes Wickham—that little shit!_ Darcy sighed shakily. She might not love him, she might not even like him. But he needed to warn her about what kind of man George Wickham was, what Wickham's father had done, and that his own feelings for her, if Wickham had seen them, might mark her as a target.

His thoughts ran in every direction but kept leading back to the same conclusions. As he watched the sun rise over Central Park, he said them aloud. "I've made such a bloody mess of things," he breathed. They were the first words he'd spoken in hours, and the sound of his voice stirred Coco from her bed by the fireplace. She stood and yawned, then padded over and laid her head on Darcy's knee. "Hey girl," he said quietly, patting her head gently.

He glanced over at the chair where a black cat snoozed away. The alarm on his phone chimed. Darcy stared at it, then picked it up and scrolled through his messages. Charles. Richard. Sara. Charles again. _Am I supposed to be somewhere today? _Darcy wondered. _It's Sunday_. He sighed and clicked on his calendar. He'd never liked February's limpid grayness and July was full of awful memories. But now April was a shitty month too. _She hates me_.

"_You're capable of more but you don't even try. You worry about consequences but you care more about a dog's dietary habits than you do about people's feelings. Your actions have consequences for other people too. It's not all about you."_

"She's right," he said, his voice rusty and soft. "I need to talk to her. She needs to know about him." First though, he needed to sleep. Darcy stood up slowly and headed down the hall to his bed.

~%~%~

"_I think about you all the time."_

Elizabeth couldn't fathom the words Darcy had said to her and she couldn't forget the pain in his eyes. How could eyes that looked upon her so coldly turn so anguished? In the months she'd known him, she'd seen amusement, boredom, worry and passion in his eyes. How could one man's eyes be so expressive? How could he be in love with her? How could he think she had similar feelings for him? _Him?_ He thought she was a silly sports-obsessed tomboy who didn't meet his standards. Didn't he?

Snug in her bed, a long rain-soaked Sunday stretching ahead, Elizabeth hugged her knees to her chest. She couldn't re-direct her thoughts, couldn't focus on any other topic. Since last night, when she'd muttered the age-old female excuse to Jane and fled to a cab, her head had been spinning. Books, movies, the headlines, nothing could get her mind off of Him. She couldn't listen to music; the last thing she wanted to hear today was more plaintive yearnings of love and desire. It was a dark rainy April day to match her gloomy mood. Even the flowers in the pots on her windowsills were drooping.

She couldn't talk about it. Not to Charlotte, who called and begged her to go to hot yoga with her. Not to Jane, who arrived home from Charles' place to find Elizabeth monosyllabic and staring at the same page of the Sunday Arts & Leisure section for nearly an hour. Unable to prompt a conversation, Jane sighed and began shooting her odd looks. And she certainly couldn't talk to anyone in Queens when the family gathered to celebrate her father's birthday later that day. Ted Bennet spoke little, preferring to sit back and watch the squabbling between sisters and cousins. Lydia was mostly oblivious, barely lifting her eyes (or thumbs) from her phone, while Mary watched the clock and complained about the paper she needed to finish by Tuesday. Aunt Maddie and Uncle Joe were there with their tweens, and Elizabeth was able to lose herself, albeit briefly, watching them play videogames. When the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, the kids, led by Jane and a grumbling Mary, dispersed outside to set up croquet. Despite her frustration with the adults for vetoing her plans for beer pong, Lydia stomped along outside with them. Aunt Maddie lingered behind, and sat down in the window seat next to Elizabeth in the living room.

"I haven't seen you in such a long time, Lizzy," she said warmly. "How are things?"

"Fine." Elizabeth smiled softly and watched through the window as Mary lectured her 12-year-old cousin on proper mallet technique.

"You're very quiet. What's happened to my usually effervescent niece?"

"Oh Maddie, I'm just a bit tired. Late night."

"Oh, you were with Jane at the Seaport? Hot date?"

Elizabeth grimaced and rolled her eyes. "Hardly. More like a fixer-upper. Charles misjudged my taste in men. Or I misjudged Charles. Let's just say I made sure to go home alone."

"Not even a goodnight kiss?" Maddie joked.

Elizabeth's stomach lurched. _"I think about you all the time."_

"Elizabeth, are you all right?" Maddie put her hand on Elizabeth's shoulder and peered closely at her niece's wan expression.

"I'm fine, Aunt Maddie," she lied. "Just a terrible night's sleep. Nothing a cup of tea won't fix."

"Did I hear something about tea?" Ted Bennet peered around the corner. "That'll fuel your creative juices and take care of your writer's block, Lizzy. Or so say the authors who get published and write such advice."

Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, who looked disappointed by the interruption, and then up at her father. "Tea and sympathy, Dad? Or just an excuse for more birthday cake and tales of academia?" Her patience for her father's observations on lazy, privileged academics was running low. _Maybe if he'd finished his Ph.D., he'd be one of them instead of their librarian._

Her father eased himself into his favorite recliner. "It's rampant internecine warfare these days, Lizzy. Enrollment is down in classics, and the university has to merge its classics and archaeology departments. Such angry emails, such petty sniping. It's a bit glorious to witness from my secure perch in the library."

"Nothing like making sport of your colleagues, Dad." _Nothing more fun than throwing around angry words you can't take back. _Elizabeth looked at her watch. _Longest day ever. _

After a Sunday afternoon spent numbly smiling at the family and trying vainly not to dwell on memories of Darcy's soulful dark eyes and painful words, Elizabeth was happy to go to the office on Monday. She assumed she'd find useful distraction or at least some busywork, but she found disappointment there as well. The book was delayed. She'd spent months tracking down athletes and setting up photo shoots and interviews, and then buddying up with them to get them to talk to her, and she wanted her work out there, on coffee tables and on book shelves. But it wouldn't happen for a few more months. There had been a postponement on the book publishing date. Last week's scandalous pop star romance and the death of an acting icon had led to a quickie tell-all and the re-issue and updating of a well-received biography. All of her hard work finishing in time for her May deadline didn't matter. Until there were pages to proof, there was nothing more she could do. All the interviews, all the writing, all the patient hand-holding during photo shoots, and all the squiring around New York, were finished. Wrapped up. Finito. She was back to sitting at her desk at P&L and writing press releases and setting up events. And trying to focus on her own personal writing project. As if introspection was what she needed right now. As if she could throw herself into anything and forget the past few days.

Nothing exciting happened until Tuesday, when she joined Jane at the Bingley family apartment for dinner. Elizabeth hadn't had to ask if Darcy would join them; Jane, watching her sister closely, had commented on Charles' annoyance that his best friend was otherwise engaged. Elizabeth wondered what she knew.

The apartment was, she discovered, a beautiful place on Lexington Avenue. Charles and his sisters had grown up in the spacious apartment, and with their father dead and their mother a year-round resident of Palm Springs, all three siblings retained a stubborn grip on the pricey property. Louisa had married and moved to Park Slope with Herb, but she retained her old bedroom and continuously dropped hints about the fortune they could make _for their mother_ by selling the family homestead. Charles and Caroline remained wary co-inhabitants, both refusing to cede possession of the prestigious address; Elizabeth had the distinct impression that Jane's near-residency in Charles' bedroom at night and in the kitchen in the morning was not sitting well with his sister. Jane was a morning person who insisted Charles start his day with spinach-kale smoothies instead of the salted caramel mochas he'd always favored. Caroline had not been amused when her brother ceased his daily trip to Starbucks; the loss of her 'extra skinny light lattes with an extra squirt' had permanently soured her morning mood.

With a long business trip to the West Coast looming, Charles was eager for an excursion to the country and suggested they all head to Netherfield for the weekend. "Want to bring a friend, Elizabeth?" he asked, winking and holding back a laugh. "I could ask Bill Collins, so Herb and I aren't outnumbered by you girls."

Jane swatted him. "Charles! That man was disgusting."

Caroline sat up quickly from her spot lounging on the couch. "What about Darcy? Isn't he coming? I've barely seen him lately."

Charles shot his sister a look and then rolled his eyes. "You saw him last Saturday at the Seaport when he was nice enough to drive you there." He glanced over at Elizabeth, still perched on the window seat and wishing she could fly away into the warm spring air.

"Sorry, Liz, I know Bill is a trial. Brilliant programmer, but he's been lost since his girlfriend dumped him at ComicCon. She met a guy even more fluent in Klingon than she is."

Caroline gasped in horror. "Ugh, people at trade shows. What about Darcy?"

_Stop asking about him!_ Elizabeth wanted to scream.

"Hey, _I'll _be at a trade show next week, Caroline," Charles said. "It's called business. Working. You should try it some time." He walked over to the terrace doors and pushed them open. "I'm going to turn on the grill," he said, gesturing at the shiny mammoth appliance on the patio.

_I bet that cost more than my car,_ Elizabeth thought, rising to follow Charles_. And it's nearly as big._

"Charles, answer me," Caroline called out.

"Darcy won't be there. He can't travel right now. Coco is sick."

"He always uses that dog as an excuse," Caroline tittered. "I suppose I should go see if Jane needs my help," she said, before pulling out her phone and sinking further into the cushions.

_He really dotes on that dog,_ Elizabeth thought as she stood marveling at the grill. "I still don't understand why Darcy's such a helicopter parent with the dog," she said softly. "Is it because his sister named her and she'd be mad if something happened?

Charles paused and looked up from where he knelt on the floor pulling out tongs and spatulas. "Elizabeth, he told you that? That his sister named Princess Coconut?"

"Yes. Why, is that not true and he's just embarrassed by the name?"

He looked at her solemnly. "You know Coco was Georgiana's puppy, right?"

_Was?_ Elizabeth shivered. She suddenly felt very cold.

"But she's his dog now? Because his sister—?" Elizabeth closed her eyes and gripped the railing. "His sister was in the accident with his mother," she croaked out.

Bingley paused and gripped the tongs a bit more tightly. "You didn't know." He said flatly.

"He—, he mentioned his mother's accident and that his father died of cancer. But he never mentioned that his sister…."

Charles looked at her, then down at the grill. Glancing over at Caroline, now stretched out on the couch and chattering away on her cell, he said quietly. "Liz, I think we need to talk. Let's go in the den."

He poured Elizabeth some seltzer and sat down across from her. "I don't want to betray any of Darcy's confidences. I've never even said anything to Jane, but I had the impression from Darcy that you two talked a bit at Netherfield, so I thought you knew about Georgie." He gave her a searching look.

Elizabeth stilled, wondering when Darcy might have enlightened her and unburdened himself of what sounded like a horribly sad story. She sipped the seltzer and shook her head. "I don't think so."

Charles took a breath and, staring blankly at the closed door, began speaking quietly. "His family had a dog and a cat. They were older pets, and Georgie wanted a puppy. So for her sixth birthday—July 6, her golden birthday—she got her wish. She named her Princess Fairy Coconut, which I believe is the short version Darcy's mother talked her into. Darcy was a teenager and refused to call her by her full name, so everybody started calling her Coco."

He looked at Elizabeth. "The accident was two months later. They were backing out of a driveway after making a wrong turn, and a truck hit the car broadside."

Charles cleared his throat and took a sip from his vodka tonic. "The other dog died years ago. The cat, Mittens, died last fall, the day after we all had dinner at Marciano's. She had a stroke that night, and Darcy had to race off to put her down. Coco is the only one left that connects him to his family, to his sister."

Numb, yet with a million questions racing through her mind, Elizabeth mumbled, "He survived. And the accident is how he got his scars."

"He was driving." Charles gave her a curious look. "How do you know about his scars?" His eyes widened. "Oh. Never mind. It's none of my business."

_He was driving?_ "He never talks about his sister, does he? It's as though he pretends she never existed because it's easier that way." _He was driving._

She looked up at Charles and suddenly the memories came rushing back, things Darcy had said to her as they sat in the dark room at Netherfield. _Oh my god, he told me about his parents. He was driving. His mother let him drive. Oh god. I knew but I didn't know I knew. The poor man._

She took a shaky breath. "My god. I'm such an idiot," she whispered.

"Liz, are you all right?"

"Thank you for telling me, Charles. Um, can I take a rain check on dinner? I think I need to go home."

She felt his hand on hers. "Liz, I'm sorry if I shocked you. I must have misunderstood what Darcy told me. Jane and I shouldn't have left you two by yourselves that night," he added wryly.

"It's fine, Charles. I mean, it's horrible, about his family. I need to go, though. I feel a headache coming on." _I need to figure out what I know._

He nodded. "Netherfield this weekend?"

"Um, next time, okay?"

She hugged Jane, hurried home, fumbled with her keys and nearly stumbled over the envelope lying inside on the rug. _Elizabeth Bennet_. Elegant handwriting on expensive paper. He'd been here. She carried it over to the sofa, turned on a lamp and gathered her courage.

~~%~~%~~

Work had always been his escape. He'd been through it before. Years earlier, Darcy had buried himself in his studies when he'd lost his family—first his mother and sister, then his father as his attentions had waned and his health had failed. Once his father was gone, and he'd fully learned painfully how far apart his parents had drifted, and how his beloved mother had betrayed his father, Darcy had buried himself in casual affairs, heavy drinking, and careless attention to his name and legacy. He'd pulled himself back up by throwing himself into work. Now, after all these years, work was all he had. But it wasn't enough, not now when he'd finally realized not only what his life was missing but also had had to face that it—she—would remain forever elusive.

On Sunday, exhausted from his all-night musings and little-fortified by the small snatches of restless sleep he'd managed, Darcy drank and paced. He ran miles on the treadmill, hoping it would exhaust him and clear his mind. He managed to fall asleep that night, knowing that on Monday, he had to face reality and prepare for an upcoming board meeting. Instead, he woke up, bleary-eyed and fighting a headache, after a fitful night filled with dreams of angry green eyes and soft caressing hands. How much worse could it get? Even his dreams were confusing and painful.

He had no choice but to work, but he stayed home to do so, focusing less on emails and paperwork and more on channeling this new sense of desolation and loss. Again, he mulled over everything he'd done wrong. After spending years focusing his attentions and talents on work and on his family's properties and legacies, he'd met Elizabeth Bennet. This sprite of a girl had laughed at him, teased him, listened to him…and he'd fallen in love with her. And for her, it had been a lark, a joke. He had been a fool. She thought him stupid and arrogant. She was wrong about some things, but she was right about his emotional intelligence. He didn't have a clue how to read her, or how to understand her or make her want to understand him. He was mortified that while he'd operated under the illusion that she knew him, knew about him, and that a tentative bond had been forged between them, she didn't know him at all and he hadn't made the effort to see that or to get to know her.

Tamping down his hurt and the last vestiges of anger, he put pen to paper. He had to deal with this, now. He wouldn't sink as low as he had in the past; Elizabeth deserved better than that. He could be a better man, even if she only saw it in his written words.

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_I will endeavor to keep this letter brief, as brief as I now understand you wish our acquaintance had been._

_You were angry and accused me of a number of things, and I need to explain myself and my actions to you. I can admit I am guilty of jumping to conclusions and thinking with my heart rather than my head. In my growing feelings for you, I allowed jealousy, confusion and misguided reactions to cloud my judgment and my words. For that, I apologize. I don't know why you thought I rejected you, or didn't care about the events between us at Netherfield. That night was an epiphany for me; that rawness of feeling and need was a first. I spoke to you of things I have rarely talked about so openly: my parents, my sister, the accident. It now seems you do not recollect all that we spoke about; again, my fault for taking advantage of your state, in pain and on painkillers, while I poured you wine. It was selfish and irresponsible of me to do so, as it was to burden you with my history and to expect your full recall and understanding. Please understand that although I had a short period of stupidity in my life, and did indeed experience the so-called walk of shame a few times, such regrettable behavior is years in the past. The hours we spent together at Netherfield meant more to me than any of those occurrences. _

_On another matter, I revealed nothing, but now, based on your friendship with George Wickham, I need to tell you the full story. Please, the details are painful and private and I tell them to you in confidence._

_I told you my father drank too much. It started after the accident. He was grieving for my mother and sister. What he didn't know was that my mother had been having an affair with Jerome Wickham for nearly a year._

_Would it have alleviated my father's pain, to know she had strayed? To know she loved him less than he loved her? I don't know. But when Wickham's son, George, got in touch with me, threatening to inform my father of painful information he didn't need, it only made things worse. George claimed to have love letters exchanged between his father and my mother, as well as incriminating photos. I saw one such letter; it was indeed her handwriting. I paid him $10,000 for the letters and the pictures, and demanded the negatives. Not surprisingly, he held back some items and returned six months later claiming to have found more. I consulted with my lawyers. My father was ill, and when we found out it was terminal, I wanted nothing more than to keep him safely away from Wickham's spurious claims. He maintained that if I wouldn't pay him, the tabloids would. You know about the British press; they live for scandals and skin and dirty bits on famous people. I wrote another cheque, and collected what he claimed were the last bits of evidence. Until that night at the gallery, I'd had no contact with him for the past five years._

_I've done what I can to keep this information private, even from my own family. I do not wish my mother's memory to be tarnished among those who loved her. Even Richard, my closest confidant, is unaware. _

_I don't know the depth of your acquaintance with the man, but I beg you to be careful. This might sound arrogant, but Wickham knows you know me, and for that reason alone, he might wish to hurt you, and by extension, me. He hates me, and blames my mother for his parents' divorce and financial ruin. I don't worry for my own well-being, but I would hate to see you harmed. His word cannot be trusted._

_As to the other charge you made, if I've cautioned Charles to be careful in his relationship with Jane, it isn't because I question your sister's feelings or intentions. She seems to be a thoughtful, kind person. In the years I've known Charles, he has flitted between girlfriends, some serious but mostly not. He is generous with his friends, and he has my implicit trust as the best friend a man could ask for. I've seen him hurt a few times; last summer left him especially burned. Honestly, since he met Jane, Charles is the happiest I've ever seen him. I've done little more than check in with him to ensure he isn't putting his heart, or Jane's, at risk in a rebound relationship. Now, after seeing them together for nearly five months, I see that your sister seems to be the real thing for him. They are beautifully matched._

_One more thing. I apologize if I was overbearing about my dog and her dietary habits. She's elderly and she means a lot to me. I know you thought her name silly, but she was my sister's puppy, and is my last living link to Georgie. _

_Be well, Elizabeth. I hope you find happiness. I apologize for insulting you. We will likely meet again through Jane and Charles; I promise to respect your wishes and keep my distance from you._

_Sincerely,_

_Fitzwilliam (not Ferdinand) Darcy_

~~%~~%~~

It only took an hour for Elizabeth to run out of tissue. She was stupid and impetuous and immature and judgmental. She'd known everything and remembered nothing. She'd jumped to conclusions about two very different men. She'd thought George was worthy of her time because he had access to people and information she needed. She'd used him and although she'd seen no sign that he was using her back, Darcy's history with George frightened her. Her business with him was done and she would move on.

But so much worse was that this smart, caring man with a terribly sad past had fallen in love with her and she had neglected to notice it. Or rather, she'd misinterpreted everything he said and did, and even though he was a lot less smooth than she'd assumed a British mega-millionaire would be, she was far worse. She was thick and narrow-minded. And alone, except for an empty box of tissue, a slice of leftover birthday cake and some nearly dead wildflowers that he'd sent her.

Oh, how fortunate he must feel to have escaped her.


	9. Chapter 9

_A few more tears might be shed in this one, but hold on to the end, okay? And thank for the lovely reviews. Real life was crazy last week, but this week, I am home alone and writing._

**Chapter 9 **

The elevator doors opened slowly, prompting Richard Fitzwilliam to rise from the hallway bench, hold aloft a six-pack of Wolf Hollow Brew and break into his most charming smile.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'd like to talk to you about the world's greatest vacuum cleaner…."

"Seriously, Rich?" Darcy panted, still catching his breath from an early evening run. "You're lying in wait for me? On a Saturday afternoon?"

"I'm glad to find you at home. I haven't seen you in weeks. Thought perhaps you'd run off to some exotic island with a pair of blondes." Rich smirked at the dark expression elicited by his joke. Darcy scowled and keyed the entry code into his front door. Walking in, he headed straight for the kitchen, Rich hard on his heels. The last thing Fitzwilliam Darcy wanted was company, especially the kind who would ask too many questions.

"Seriously, can't a man come home from a run and not get ambushed by stupid jokes?" Darcy grabbed a paper towel and wiped his face. His t-shirt and running pants were damp from his five-mile run and the first drops of a late April rain.

"Hey, you didn't return my call," Rich said as he set the beer on the counter. "I thought we were going to scatter Coco's ashes today."

Darcy's eyes involuntarily flickered over to the empty dog bed near the couch. _Right._ He winced.

"Sheep's Meadow or the Ramble? Or England, with Georgie?" Rich looked away from his cousin, unsure if he was ready to actually discuss the topic. When Darcy had called him a few days ago with the news about Coco's fatal stroke, he hadn't wanted to talk about it beyond providing the straightforward facts. Rich knew his cousin well enough to recognize that he was still processing the loss, and he could only do that alone.

"Um, half here, I think. Some at Pemberley, of course. And the rest over there, with a stone." Darcy cleared his throat. "It takes a week or so to get the ashes from the vet. They use a cremation service. Perhaps in 10 days or so we can take them over to the park."

"Okay. You're doing all right?" Rich peered closely at Darcy, still breathing heavily and drinking deeply from a water bottle.

Darcy nodded.

"You know I loved her too. She was a sweet, sweet dog."

Darcy sighed. It sounded a little shaky.

Rich cleared his throat. "Channeling it all by running a lot?"

"The world of psychoanalysis is lost without your insights," Darcy said in a soft but sharp voice.

Rich leaned back against the counter. "I stopped by the office yesterday. Sara said you'd only been in there twice in the past two weeks. She's worried about you."

"I talk to her four or five times a day."

"When I told her about Coco, she burst into tears," Rich replied, his voice hard. "You didn't tell her? Your assistant? Do you ever talk to anybody?"

Darcy grimaced and bent over to untie his shoes. "She loves animals. She adored Coco. I just didn't want the sympathy hugs, or the cookies. Her mother _bakes_ for me," he said plaintively. "I give it all to the shelter on Columbus Circle."

Rich gave him a long, appraising look. "Coco had a good life. You were great with her. But she tied you down. You're a free man now."

Darcy scoffed. "That's one way to see it. Jesus, Rich."

"For god's sake, Darce. You look like you haven't slept in a week. You've lost weight," Rich nearly shouted. "And _two_ weeks of working at home? Coco died in her sleep four days ago. What were you doing the week before that?"

Darcy picked up his shoes and frowned. He carried them over to the utility room, placed them on the laundry sink and walked back into the kitchen, saying nothing.

"Fine," Rich said. "The Yankees have won eight straight and you haven't even been to a game. Just…move on. Let's decide about the ashes and go have dinner. We could go to the game tonight."

Feigning nonchalance, Darcy yawned. "I'm sure you haven't let the seats go unoccupied. So who've you been watching the games with? That Italian translator?" He really didn't want to know, he didn't want to ask, but he had to know if Rich had taken Elizabeth.

"No one you know, man. But maybe one or two you should get to know." Rich crossed his arms and shook his head. "Let's get out of town. I could use a vacation, and god knows you need one. Rio? Cape Town?"

"South of the equator, Rich. It's winter there."

"Right. So… Sardinia or Fiji?"

Darcy shrugged and headed to the shower. Rich reached over the counter for a beer. He walked back into the living room, rubbed his beard and looked around. The apartment was clean and neat as always. Nothing out of place. He glanced over at the writing desk in the front hall. Mail was stacked up, magazines and cards neatly piled. "God, what is going on with him?"

He wandered down the hall to Darcy's bedroom. Hearing the shower running, he walked into the bedroom and studied it. It looked as it always had, darkly furnished and, besides some books and a few family photos, free of clutter. Except on the nightstand, where a blue envelope addressed in feminine handwriting caught his eye.

He tamped down his shame by reminding himself that he was on a reconnaissance mission. Mrs. Reynolds was worried about "her boy," Sara was concerned about her boss, and it was his job to solve the mystery of his cousin's melancholy.

_Fitzwilliam,_

_I apologize if hearing from me brings you more pain, but I wanted you to know how sorry I am about Coco. She was a lovely dog, and you were always very sweet with her. Now she is with others who loved her. I hope you are with those who love you._

_I'm sorry about other things as well. I greatly misjudged you and misunderstood myself, actions I greatly regret. You deserve better. Please take care, and be well._

_-Elizabeth Bennet_

"What the hell are you doing in my room, Richard?"

Rich slid the card back into the envelope and turned around. Darcy stood before him, a towel around his waist and another one in his hand rubbing dry his hair. His eyes drifted to the envelope and he froze.

"Put that down," Darcy said harshly. _Dammit!_ "Did you read it?"

Rich set the card back on the nightstand and shifted on his feet. "So what's the story there?" he asked in a light voice. "Between the two of you?"

"Nothing. Not a damn thing." Darcy threw the bath towel over his neck and stalked over to the table. He picked up the card and carried it over to his dresser, where he opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of boxers, then slid the card into the drawer. He disappeared into the closet.

"Right, Darce," Rich called after him. "You're hiding a card from a woman in your underwear drawer and you say it's nothing?"

A few moments later, Darcy emerged in jeans, barefoot and rolling up the sleeves on a chambray shirt. "It's nothing to you, Rich. Seriously. Just sod off."

A few moments later, Rich followed his cousin out of the room. He found him in the kitchen, pulling a salad and a few labeled containers out of the refrigerator.

"We're not going out?"

"I don't feel like it. Mrs. Reynolds leaves meals for the weekends."

Rich settled himself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island. "Darcy." He watched the other man open a container and stare at the contents. "Talk to me. It's not just the dog, is it?"

"No, I'm fine…it was her time." Darcy closed his eyes and leaned on the counter. He was exhausted and suddenly the weight of the past two weeks hit him and he felt his eyes misting. _Shit. Not now._ He turned and wiped his hands on a towel and collected himself.

"Will…."

That did it. No one called him Will anymore. He felt himself crumbling.

"I, um…. I made the mistake of asking out Elizabeth Bennet," he said softly. "Only to discover that she can't stand me." _There's the understatement of the century._

"Why?" Rich said, undisguised surprise in his voice.

"Why did I ask her out or why does she hate me?" Darcy sighed.

"Bad news first. Why does she hate you?"

Darcy took a deep breath. "It's a long list. I'm a snob who sleeps with anything that moves and thinks everyone is beneath me. I'm judgmental and stupidly wrong for thinking that _she_ sleeps with anything that moves and has bad taste in men. Oh, and she thinks that I've tried to break up Charles and Jane, and I'm not a gentleman.

"Wow," Rich let out a low whistle. "You really do know how to make an impression."

"Oh yeah, I'm gifted."

"But you obviously don't feel or think any of those things she accused you of."

"No." Darcy had a sudden realization. _I should tell him about Wickham. All of it._

"But she thinks you do. Did you actually say something to her about her um, dating habits?"

"I jumped to conclusions based on empirical observation. I neglected to ask pertinent questions."

Rich groaned. "God, you're a charmer."

"I kept seeing her with different men. I didn't know, but should have known, that it was work-related."

"So, with all of that in your mind, why did you ask her out?"

Darcy took a deep breath, and reached over to pull out a beer. He handed another one to his cousin and slowly walked past him and into the darkening living room. _Because I'm in love with her._ He fell back into a darkly upholstered chair.

"Because she's smart and pretty…and fun to be around…and completely unpretentious."

Rich, settling into the sofa, snorted. "That describes my sister and a dozen other women I could name. Please be more specific."

Darcy took a long pull on his beer. "She's… she's someone I want to know better," he said quietly. "She's so lively, but I feel comfortable around her. She makes me open up."

"Ah, she is the oil that makes your rusty locks swing open?"

Darcy looked up, annoyed. "Rich, stop trying to use ridiculous Moldavian proverbs in America. They don't translate well." _One more joke and I'm done talking._

Rich nodded and ceded the point. "Sorry, man. But why _her_, why does she do that?"

"I have no idea," Darcy said softly. "I just like being around her. I _need_ to be around her."

Rich rested his cheek on his hand and just looked at his cousin; Darcy's face, tired and pale, wore a vulnerable expression he hadn't seen on him in years. He averted his eyes and cleared his throat. "So you can talk to her about your big important life? Your professional triumphs, your awful taste in music, and your disgrace on the tennis court at the hands of your beloved and brilliant cousin Rich?"

"We neglected to cover most of those areas, nor did your name ever come up." Darcy took another sip of beer and stared at the wall. His hand twitched involuntarily, ready to stroke Coco's head. He closed his eyes. As sudden as her death had been, it was going to take time to adjust to her absence. He missed her, especially now. She'd been a sweet dog.

The two men sat for a minute as the shadows of dusk overtook the room.

"Did you talk about your family?" Rich asked quietly.

Darcy's expression darkened.

"I did…I thought I did," he finally said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. "We had a couple of long conversations one night, but we both took different things away from it. She was on a painkiller and had a glass of wine and apparently remembers little of it. I didn't realize that until…"

"Until?"

"Until I told her I was in love with her."

"My god, Darcy." Rich looked stunned. "When was this?"

"When I asked her out."

"Excuse me?"

"It started last fall. That's when we met. And my feelings grew. I—, we—, it all blew up two weeks ago." Darcy laid his head back against the chair. "I'm an idiot. I thought she knew, that she felt the same kind of connection between us. I couldn't have been more wrong."

"It couldn't have been as one-sided as you think. There's a thin line between love and hate." Noting his cousin's glare, Rich threw up his hands defensively. "Hey, that's from Motown, not Moldavia."

Darcy shook his head. "You really are incorrigible. How did your mother not return you to the cabbage patch?"

"Darcy, you know I'm right." Rich leaned forward and looked earnestly at Darcy. "You both had strong feelings, but that doesn't mean they were opposite."

"I don't think I'm in any position to find out," Darcy said, his voice hoarse and full of regret. "I misread her, quite badly."

"Maybe, maybe not." Rich gazed at him steadily, his brows furrowed. "Her note is very nice."

Darcy swallowed and nodded. "It is."

"And she knew about Coco. Sounds as if she's paying a bit of attention to you," Rich added.

Darcy sighed. "I'm sure Charles told her."

"Why is Elizabeth so invested in Charles' dating life?"

"What?" Darcy looked up, confused. "Because he's dating her sister. They're practically joined at the hip."

"Elizabeth's sister is Charles' angel?" Seeing his cousin's nod, Rich slowly and apologetically explained his clueless comments at the Yankees game about Darcy's concerns about the relationship.

_Oh god. It only gets worse, _Darcy thought._ Is this when I decide whether to laugh or cry?_

"Well, good to know that abject stupidity runs in the family," Darcy said, raising his bottle for a mock toast. "At least now I know where she heard such nonsense. It seems as though you simply reinforced her view of me as a man overly worried about consequences."

"Sorry, man. Really. Dammit." Chagrined, a memory stirred in Richard. "She knew Georgie picked Coco's name, but I wondered if she was aware of the whole story."

Darcy closed his eyes. "I did tell her some of it, that night we were marooned at Charles' place together. But apparently, she doesn't remember. I didn't know that and I'm loath to bring it up again."

"It's a part of you, Darcy.

"Yeah, yeah," Darcy said bitterly. "`It defines who I am.' I did the therapy, Rich." _As if I will ever dredge up that horror again, to anyone._

"So, have you ever told Elizabeth about the accident?" Rich watched him warily.

"That my little sister died because I begged my mother to let me drive? Fuck, Richard. She already thought I was an ass, you truly think I'm going add that? Poor, pitiful me." Darcy hunched over and stared at his reflection in the glass tabletop. He looked awful and ran his hand across his face.

Rich swore under his breath. "Well she already has some odd ideas about you," he said gently. "I mentioned that both of us had parents who married their great love and she seemed a bit skeptical."

_Was there anything they didn't talk about during that damn game?_ "That was some heart-to-heart talk you two had," Darcy growled. His eyes flickered to his cousin's face and observed he looked nearly as miserable as himself._ She doubted my parents…? Oh no,_ _Wickham._ A shudder ran through him. Darcy sat up and ran his hand through his damp curls. He closed his eyes and grimaced.

"Hey Rich, fetch us another beer? I think I need to tell you a story."

~~%~~

Jane had missed her calling by going into the insurance industry. Elizabeth knew that her sister was focused on the long-term career stability she would get in the field, but she thought Jane would've done quite well by starting a Get-A-Hug franchise. Ever since Elizabeth had reluctantly explained her melancholy sighs and less than boisterous behavior, giving Jane the barebones version of her "relationship" with Darcy, Jane had been in full-bore mother hen mode.

Elizabeth had told her only that Darcy had asked her out at the Seaport and hadn't been very nice when she declined. She hadn't told her about what had happened at Netherfield. She couldn't. Jane would feel guilty, Jane would feel responsible, Jane would feel uncomfortable. And with Jane's future looking ever more likely to be as Mrs. Charles Bingley, she didn't need to know that his best friend was a man who had peeled off her sister's shirt before leaving her high and dry on a Chesterfield sofa, only to show up months later to offer up his heart on a platter to be sliced, diced and put through a grinder. Elizabeth's eyes stung every time she remembered his face, and the words he put on paper.

"_I don't know why you thought I rejected you, or didn't care about the events between us at Netherfield. That night was an epiphany for me; that rawness of feeling and need was a first."_

No, Jane didn't need to know any of the nitty-gritty details. Nor did Elizabeth think it was her place to fully reveal his family history. When Jane mentioned that Charles had told her Darcy doted on animals because his sister had died when she was young, Elizabeth shut the door on shading in the details. It was horribly sad and she was a horrible person for not remembering that he _had_ told her, and that she _had known_ about the accident but had still managed to misjudge him. And yet even now, she couldn't recall very much of what either of them had said that night. But she remembered feeling the scars on his back, and how he'd pulled away when she'd asked.

What a hypocrite she was, writing a novel about the blacklist and the Red Scare in the 1950s. While quietly working on her pet project about American citizens who were judged as communists and traitors and lost their jobs, their friends, and their reputations based on their own intellectual curiosity, or on a long-forgotten signature on a political petition, or on often unfounded allegations, she was guilty of judging one man based on his social interactions, on another man's word, and on her own foggy memories. She was an idiot.

"_Please understand that although I had a short period of stupidity in my life, and did indeed experience the so-called walk of shame a few times, such regrettable behavior is years in the past. The hours we spent together at Netherfield meant more to me than any of those occurrences."_

At least Darcy had only had a short period of stupidity in his life. Hers seemed destined to stretch on and on. But at least an idiot like herself could show up for work, tap out press releases and set up focus groups. Elizabeth could go running, sharpen her cooking skills, and immerse herself in bad television. What she couldn't do was focus on writing her novel.

Her old haunts betrayed her. She didn't want to see George; what she'd learned about him from Darcy's letter sickened her, and she was afraid to let him know what she knew about him. He'd called, and she'd let him know the book was delayed, but she hadn't heard from him again. She'd gone to Blackie's with a few friends and had been grateful not to see him there. Charlotte and her brothers persuaded her to join them at a Mets game, but it felt like a letdown after a luxury suite at Yankee Stadium. Another thought to keep to herself. Elizabeth could fill a notebook with unspoken regrets, secret musings and spiteful words she'd like to take back.

A week after she'd received Darcy's letter, Elizabeth bumped into George at Starbucks. It was clear to her that he, familiar with her workday routine, had been waiting for her there. _A liar, lying in wait_. She decided it was best to play dumb and pretend to their friendship. He was not a good man, and perhaps a dangerous one. She reluctantly agreed to share a table and catch up on the goings on with the book, his recent travels and other day-to-day happenings. After about ten minutes, George put down his coffee and looked at her beseechingly.

"You know, Elizabeth. I've barely seen you since Darcy attacked me at the gallery, and then you went off to Yankee Stadium with his cousin. Have you thrown me over for those two? Perhaps a ménage a trois? Or is it just one of them?" He quirked an eyebrow and leered at her.

Elizabeth smiled uncomfortably and shook her head. "You're deranged, George. Trust me, I'm not just off the market, I'm boycotting men. No dating for me."

"You're a beautiful woman, Liz," purred George. "Sounds as though you've had your heart broken and lost your trust in men."

"Hardly," she muttered. George's seat-of-his-pants psychoanalysis made her uncomfortable; it was hitting too close to home and he was sitting too close to her. He made her skin crawl.

"Hmm…you play it safe with me. Coffee, never dinner. And I saw you with Darcy." He looked at her closely. "You know him far better than you'd led me to believe."

Elizabeth bit back her anger. _I knew nothing about him when you saw us talking. Now I know too much, you nasty little man._

"Do be careful, Liz. Don't get too close or he'll toss you aside, just like all the others."

"Oh George. I'm an independent thinker. I like to delve deep and come to my own conclusions. So as much as I appreciate all of your smearing of Darcy's name and reputation, I've concluded he's a pretty good guy."

"Have you now?" George leaned back and eyed her speculatively. "Delved underneath that mask he wears? Maybe he's just giving you a peek inside to hurt me because he knows you and I are so close."

Elizabeth pushed back her chair and stood. "Actually, George, you and I are not that close."

He grabbed her hand. "We could be."

"No, we couldn't. I don't date liars. In fact, I'm not even friends with them." She yanked her hand away. "Goodbye."

Her legs shook as she strode out the door. The angry mortification on George's face was well worth the uneasy fear she felt all afternoon. It was almost a relief to feel anger at him instead of her self-directed regret and sadness. Odd, she mused, this late-blooming talent she was discovering for leaving good-looking men shocked and ashen.

~~%~~

Although spring passed slowly and painfully, as the temperatures rose and early summer dawned, even Elizabeth's mood started to lighten in the face of Jane's overflowing happiness. Elizabeth Bennet might have kicked a good man to the curb, she might have one book sitting stalled at the publisher's and another one shoved into the back of a desk drawer, and she might have gained three pounds from her culinary experiments, but her sisterly affection could override all of the bad stuff. How could she not smile and laugh when Jane came home with a 5-carat engagement ring? If any Bennet was going to be happy and make a wonderful marriage, it was Jane. Elizabeth could even buck up when late one night, unable to sleep and still feeling the effects of a bit too much wine at her tell-all confessional dinner with Charlotte, she recalled her friend's half-whispered, half-drunk warning: "If you're maid of honor, then you know who is going to be best man. Can you handle that?"

An autumn wedding was months away. _Ages._ She'd be fine. She and Darcy would both have moved on; they'd both have dates, or serious boyfriends or girlfriends, by then, right? _Right._ Yes, Elizabeth was just fine, right up until the moment when Jane and Charles announced that they were inviting both families to Darcy's house in the Hamptons over Memorial Day weekend to celebrate the news….and that Sylvia Bennet LaRue wanted to sing at the wedding. _Perfect. The mother who flew the coop now wants to command center stage._

Even as she reeled from the double-whammy impact of a weekend at Darcy's place and her mother center-stage at the wedding, Elizabeth couldn't help but beam at Charles. "I've always wanted a brother," she said. "But you haven't met your future mother-in-law. If she scares you off, I'll have to hunt you down and hurt you."

Happier than even his usual ebullient state, Charles laughed and said he knew all the best hiding places at Netherfield and a few good ones at Darcy's house. "If you are a very nice sister, I might show you some of them," he chuckled.

Noting the shadow that crossed Elizabeth's face, he leaned over and casually mentioned that Darcy wouldn't be joining them for the weekend. Work, of course. But he added that Darcy was dealing better with Coco's passing; he'd been freed up a little and was traveling more. When Charles had told her last month that Coco had suddenly died, only a week after she'd practically spit in Darcy's face, she'd sobbed quietly in her bed and had managed, finally, to write him a long overdue apology. Looking back on it, she couldn't recall a worse moment in her adult life.

Jane assured her that Darcy had offered his house on the beach for a family celebration, but had personally begged off due to a business trip. _So_, Elizabeth thought_, I will be surrounded by the man, immersed in all things him, but he won't be there. _She sagged in relief but still felt disappointed. "How_ is _he, really?" she'd wanted to ask Charles. But she didn't. Charles, the most transparent person she knew, had been oddly evasive on the subject of his friend. _Does he know what happened between us? Does he know what I had said to Darcy?_ Elizabeth finally asked Jane about it during a sisterly moment at the nail salon.

"Did you tell Charles about me and Darcy?" _God, I sound like a five-year-old._ "Or did Darcy?"

Jane paused, glancing up from _Us_ magazine. "Are you sure about this shade of pink, Lizzy? It's a bit loud."

"It's fine, Jane."

"Okay," she answered doubtfully, staring at her half-painted toenails. She looked up in the mirror and met Elizabeth's eyes. "Darcy told Charles the same thing you told me. He asked you out, you declined, he asked why, and you argued." Jane took a breath. "Is there more to it? More you'd like to share?"

"No." Elizabeth had kept everything that happened at Netherfield, and nearly everything since, to herself. Only Charlotte knew any of it, and even with her, she'd only shared about 80% of the details. Jane didn't need to carry the baggage of her sister's stupidly awful behavior into her relationship with the poor man's best friend.

"But I can tell you're uncomfortable whenever his name comes up. Are you sure you can handle the weekend? Is it too soon? Remember, the wedding isn't till November. You have months to buck up for that."

"Exactly, Jane. He won't be there. I'm fine."

~~%~~

"Are we there yet?" piped up a small voice. Elizabeth hadn't dared to voice the same thought; sitting in the backseat with her young cousins had distracted her from a pervading sense of doom but her ears and her patience were a bit worn out. Still, it had been preferable to driving up with Jane and Charles in a car packed with Caroline's "extra luggage," sent ahead of her next-day arrival. The lovebirds had discovered a shared passion for singing old commercial jingles and Elizabeth, already suffocating under their happiness, hated to think she might scare them with the fierce angry face she'd shown so freely to Darcy. Elizabeth was grateful to have a day and night without Charles' sisters or her own family. Louisa's unexpected and seemingly unwanted pregnancy would delay them a day; leave it to a Bingley girl to have "evening sickness" and thus plan an early morning car trip. The father of the bride, Barbara and the girls would likely arrive by noon if they could roust Lydia from her bed by then.

Bingley's Lexus slowed down as they crested the hill. His arm emerged from the window and he gestured for Uncle Joe to pull alongside him. "There," he said, pointing at a sprawling, shingled, low-slung mansion on a cliff above the beach. "That's Pemberley." Elizabeth was speechless. It was stunning. It was beautiful. It was his.

The family followed Charles into the house and dropped their bags. "Hmm," he said, looking around the vast open space. "Let me go find Mrs. Reynolds. Darcy promised me she'd be here."

Elizabeth grabbed a water bottle from her bag and wandered outside with the children and her aunt. The kids raced to a swing hanging from a huge oak, but Elizabeth set off to clear her head and see the grounds. A generous sandy beach stretched out behind the house, and waves lapped gently at the shore. She didn't see another house for miles. A copse of trees stood at the cliff's edge across the road, and beyond that she could see gardens. Elizabeth decided to explore. She was walking through a meadow of lavender and goldenrod when she heard a noise. She turned around and looked up. It was _him_.

"Elizabeth," he gasped.

"You're here," she gulped.

Happy days are here again, smiles and awkwardness to come! Let me know if D&E have suffered enough _**here.**_

Notes: 

The Red Scare was a shameful period in American history, when fears spiked of Communism spreading onto our shores from the Sputnik-launching Soviet Union. The 1947-54 scaremongering was led by Sen. Joe McCarthy of Wisconsin. American citizens, ordinary and prominent, were called to testify in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee. Lives were ruined and careers destroyed, for the innocent and private act of attending a meeting or reading pamphlets. Hollywood was especially affected. Screenwriter Dalton Trumbo, for example, was blacklisted as one of the "Hollywood Ten" and served 11 months in prison for contempt of Congress. After his release, he won two Oscars under assumed names working for sympathetic friends: _The Brave One_ (as Robert Rich in 1956) and _Roman Holiday_ (as Ian McLellan Hunter in 1953), and was later revealed as the writer of _Spartacus_ and _Exodus_. Blacklisting lingered until 1960. Trumbo received his 1956 Oscar in 1975, and posthumously for _Roman Holiday_ in 1993.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Sorry the one-day delay in posting. Was a bit under the weather and Wednesdays are always a busy workday. Might start updating on Thursdays. But here is a happy chapter: No tearjerker cliffhangers, no angry words, just a little awkwardness, shared conversation and mutual discoveries. Yes, it's a much-needed (much-requested) mushy chapter. It is Pemberley, after all._

**Chapter 10**

"Elizabeth," he gasped.

"You're here," she gulped.

Indeed he was. Filthy and dripping sweat, Darcy's eyes were bright and his hair longer than she remembered. His hands and polo shirt were covered in grease.

"Yes," he choked out. Elizabeth was _here_, at Pemberley, staring at him. He shook his head, trying to erase the fog that had him wondering if he was in heaven or hell.

"I was leaving," he added. "But, um, I had a flat tire and I was trying to change it, but I lost a nut."

Her eyes widened. _What?_

"When I was trying to yank it off. The tire? And the spare was stuck. I was trying to leave. But…the tire." He looked away from her and took a step back. _I sound like a bloody idiot. I'm babbling._

Suddenly Elizabeth realized her mouth was hanging open. He was messy and damp and he was in shorts and she realized she'd never seen his legs before. He was here, at his house, and so was she. And she needed to say something.

"Do you need some help?" _Brilliant, Bennet. Building IKEA furniture doesn't qualify you as a mechanic. _"I can go get Charles. Oh, wait. My Uncle Joe is here. He's great with cars."

His eyes darted back to her and then off toward the house. "Your family, they're here?" _Oh, he was in hell. Definitely._

"Not all of them. Just Jane and Charles, and my aunt and uncle and their children."

Darcy nodded. "Er—I should clean up. And get a drink. It's beastly hot." He bent his head and lifted a clean corner of his shirt to wipe his brow. He looked up sheepishly and saw her eyes staring at his chest. He quickly pulled his shirt down.

"Pardon me." Cringing at his behavior, his face bright red, Darcy started to move past Elizabeth.

_Oh my. Oh. _ _He's dehydrated._ "Here," she croaked awkwardly, her face as crimson as his. "I have some water." She held up her water bottle.

He looked at the bottle and then at her. He looked confused.

"I only took a sip," she said stupidly.

He blinked and offered her a crooked smile. "Thank you. Very much. But I can get something at the house."

"Oh. Sure." Elizabeth looked away. She felt like an idiot. "Well, I was going to explore a bit. Good luck."

Darcy watched her walk off down the path and let out a deep sigh. _Brilliant. I lift my shirt and then I insult her. We manage two minutes of civility and I screw it up. Perfect._

How? Because when she told him she'd only taken a sip, all he could think about were her lips. And his, sharing the same bottle. God, when had he become such a woolgatherer? He needed to get cleaned up and get the car fixed. And fix what had just happened. Or should he just leave? Fuck, he'd wanted to be gone and not intrude and screw up Charles' celebration. But he was going to be trapped here for at least a few hours, until he could ensure the Mustang was attended to. He'd better use that time wisely and try to have another, better moment with Elizabeth. He started toward the house.

_She's here. And she looks amazing in shorts_.

~~%~~

Few things had ever amused Charles Bingley more than to watch his smarter, richer, stuffier friend—grease smeared on his cheek, wearing a filthy, once-white polo shirt dampened by sweat—explain his predicament.

"I told you that Mustang shouldn't be driven, Darcy. It's a relic. A gorgeous, sleek collector's item." Charles crossed his arms and stared at an oily spot on Darcy's shirt. "What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were out of town."

"Being at Pemberley _is_ being out of town, Charles," Darcy replied, smiling a little. "This was my first chance to scatter Coco's ashes here, you know, in the gardens she used to tear up."

"Oh, of course," Charles nodded sadly. "Good for you, Darce. That's perfect."

"I thought so." Noting his friend's concern, Darcy quickly shifted gears, asserting that he needed to clean up and make sure that the car would be drivable.

"You're going to drive it to the city?" Charles looked incredulous.

"Of course not, are you daft? It just needed to be taken out to shake off the cobwebs before I headed out. I've got the Rover in the garage to drive back."

"Oh." Charles looked crestfallen. "So you're leaving? I mean, after a good scrubbing, of course."

Darcy just stood, not saying anything. His eyes swept the vast, gleaming white foyer and alighted on a mirror. He looked even worse than he'd suspected. _Vile._

"Come on, Darcy. You have to meet everyone. Jane's aunt and uncle are great. And their kids want to play pirates, so I was going to get out the dinghies and have water wars. They brought water cannons," Charles said, smiling mischievously.

"Really, Darce. It'll be fun. And I _promise_ to keep Caroline far away from you. Please don't let us chase you away from your own house."

Darcy bit his lip. He didn't just have a choice; he had an opportunity. "Of course I'll stay. Um, I need to get upstairs and clean up."

"Great! And yeah…go scrub behind your ears. We don't want you soiling your own furniture or scaring all the guests." Charles smiled at the wary expression on his friend's face and added, "Don't worry, they're all down at the water." He slapped Darcy on the back, and grimaced. "Ugh, you're disgusting."

~~%~~

He didn't just look amazing in shorts. He looked pretty damn good in a wet shirt, too. Elizabeth blanched. _Since when am I noticing these things? _

After Darcy had walked back to the house, she'd ventured down the road a bit and had seen his abandoned, jacked-up sports car in the distance. _Hot car. Hot day. Hot man. Ergh. _She hated these thoughts ruminating in her brain and shifted to wondering why he'd tried to change the tire himself. _Desperate to get away from here? From me?_

She'd spent the next half-hour or so, sandals in hand, walking along the beach and trying to figure out—again—just how many more ways this weekend could go bad.

She hadn't counted on Darcy being here. He wasn't _supposed _to be here. His presence just compounded all the impending embarrassments and frustrations she always felt around her family. Darcy's overwhelmingly beautiful Hamptons' mansion would just magnify their foibles and failings. With him as their host, witness to the spectacle of Lydia and Mary meeting Charles' sisters for the first time? Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and used her big toe to draw an X in the sand. _Who hates me enough to set up this weekend in hell? _Elizabeth could only think of two people she'd spoken to rudely in the past week, and despite the hairy mole on the woman's chin, she doubted that the Macy's clerk who'd loudly announced Elizabeth's cup size was actually a witch. That left one name: George Wickham. _Ugh._ She'd befriended him for his charming smile and valuable Rolodex and it seemed he'd used her as well to spread his slanderous stories about the Darcy family. She sighed heavily and watched the water roll in and blur the edges of her X. May that liar's name, and the memory of his face, disappear so quickly and so permanently as well.

The name and face of Fitzwilliam Darcy would not disappear. Elizabeth laughed softly. God, he'd been a mess. After hours in the car with squirming children, she probably didn't look much better, but at least she didn't have grease smeared on her nose. She'd been afraid to see him again, afraid to see the hurt and anger in his eyes, but all she had seen was embarrassment and fatigue. And maybe something else.

Still. After the things she'd said to him and the lies she'd believed about his family, how could he want to see her again? In his home? _And I offered him my water bottle?_ _I bet he thinks I have cooties, _she thought ruefully. _God, he saw me look at his chest._ It was mortifying to think she'd have to face him again, here at his house or in the future, at the wedding. She wondered if even now he was hurrying to another car to get away from her and back to New York. She wasn't sure if she felt relief or regret at the thought.

As awkward as their meeting had been, though, they had managed to talk to each other, in a civil, not unfriendly manner. She owed him an honest attempt to be friendly. He owed her nothing. But she would forge on, and she'd make sure to say something to him about Coco. So much awfulness for him…Maybe it was he who was cursed by a witch. _Oh geez, maybe I'm the witch._

The clanging of a bell broke her thoughts. "C'mon everyone! Shrimps are on the barbie!" Charles bellowed.

Elizabeth turned and saw her aunt and uncle rounding up their children about a hundred yards from her. She started toward them as Aunt Maddie waved to her. "There you are, Lizzy. You've been gone nearly an hour!"

Elizabeth smiled weakly. "You know me, always exploring."

Her aunt nodded. "Simply beautiful, isn't it? So many of these old houses have been gutted or razed for vanity projects and McMansions, but this house has been left true to its vintage. It's just so perfect in its setting. I wonder who built it?"

"It's a family house."

"Right, Charles' friend…what was the name?"

"Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Fitzwilliam?" Aunt Maddie's eyes widened. "As in Catherine and Anne Fitzwilliam?"

Elizabeth swallowed. "His mother was Anne."

"Well, how about that," murmured Aunt Maddie. "Wow."

A small shiver shot through Elizabeth's consciousness. "Maddie, who was she? Why do you know who she was?"

"Oh Lizzy, when I was a little girl, Anne Fitzwilliam was the hottest girl in New York. At every club, every opening. She was only 18 or 19, but her photo was everywhere…Vogue, W, People… She was the `It Girl.'"

_Really?_

"And then she disappeared. And a few years later, there she was in London, marrying a lord or something. Mr. Darcy, apparently."

"That's so unexpected," Elizabeth mumbled. "Paparazzi fodder?"

Maddie smiled. "No. She wasn't trashy like these reality show people today. Far, far from it. She was glamorous, old money, and very beautiful."

"Was she a model?"

"Not really, just a very popular, very visible member of the Social Register. I don't remember anything about her sister. Catherine was older, not in the papers the way her sister was." Maddie sighed. "Anne died in a car accident, I believe. Fitzwilliam must have been just a boy."

_Yes, a 16-year-old boy, behind the wheel. _Just thinking of it made Elizabeth's eyes sting. As they neared the steps to the deck, she felt lightheaded. She sat down on the first stair, slipped on her sandals and stared out at the water. Maddie went ahead to corral her children.

"Ew! I hate fish!" cried Alex.

"Good thing we have hot dogs, then," Jane said.

"Do we have chips?" Ava asked.

"Always."

Maddie smiled. "I'll get my salads out of the fridge. We're eating outside, right?" she asked Jane, while nodding toward her two small, sandy beachcombers.

Suddenly Darcy, his hair damp and wearing a clean polo shirt and khaki shorts, emerged from the house. "There's an outdoor shower right around the corner where they could rinse their hands and feet. I'll show you." He reached down to a wooden box, lifted the lid and pulled out two towels. He turned to find Maddie and the children gaping at him. "Oh, excuse me. I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy."

Maddie's eyes widened. "Oh you're here. This is your house," Maddie said slowly. "I didn't realize you'd be here. I apologize if we've left a trail inside or made a mess."

"Everything is fine," he said smiling. "It's a beach house. It's meant to get messy."

"We'll do our best to avoid that. I'm Madeline Gardiner, Jane's and Lizzy's aunt. Those two yard apes are Ava and Alex. And my husband, Joe, is around here somewhere."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gardiner. I hope Charles has made you comfortable?"

"Of course I have, you big dope," Charles said, reaching for another beer and waving his spatula in the air.

Maddie quickly rounded up the children and went off with their host toward the shower. Elizabeth slowly stood up from the steps, mouth agape.

"Lizzy dear, there are flies about. Shut your mouth and help me pour the lemonade," Jane said sweetly. "Did you hear about Fitzwilliam's flat tire? He cleaned up nicely, didn't he?" she added.

_So he did_, Elizabeth thought, half-miserably. "Be right back," she called out, walking inside in search of a place to wash her hands. When they'd arrived an hour earlier, she hadn't gone past the front door, and now she stood, head turning and eyes wide, taking in all the stunning, glorious square footage. It was a huge kitchen, notable for vintage white cabinetry and gleaming copper pots hanging over a vast island, but made warm and cozy by the fireplace next to the breakfast nook. She kept walking and found herself in a long window-filled room, furnished with deeply cushioned chairs scattered about on colorful rugs, knotty pine bookcases bulging with books, and incredible views of the ocean. Forging on, she entered a powder room and took a moment to collect herself. She washed her face and hands, took a deep breath, and wandered back out, towards the front door to collect her bag. It was gone. Taken. She swallowed. _To my room in his house._

~~%~~%~~

Elizabeth had never seen her normally calm, staid aunt gush as much as she did around Fitzwilliam Darcy. Apparently, Elizabeth was not the only woman who found the man and his name a bit overwhelming.

"Your mother was a beautiful girl, a beautiful woman. I remember seeing her picture in the _Times' Style_ section. But always on her way to something that mattered. Or a Yankees game, as I recall," Aunt Maddie laughed.

"She was a big fan."

"She was close to the Steinbrenners, wasn't she?"

"Yes," Darcy replied, a gentle smile on his lips. "She and Jenny Steinbrenner were college roommates." He glanced at the raised eyebrows. "University of North Carolina."

"A Southern belle," said Joe. "That explains her grace."

_UNC? A Tar Heel?_ _For a Fitzwilliam?_ This was not what Elizabeth had expected to hear. After making sure her mouth was closed and her jaw hadn't dropped, she looked across the table at Darcy.

He met her eyes and shrugged. "My grandparents were furious she didn't go Ivy League. She transferred to Columbia after a year, before she moved to London, and she liked reminding them that life doesn't begin and end with an acceptance letter."

It was the most they'd communicated since dinner began. They'd said hello when she returned from her room wearing a clean blouse and a touch of mascara, but she'd immediately gotten caught up in helping with dinner and he'd started talking to her uncle about the flat tire on his mother's nearly half-century-old Ford Mustang. Neither had seemed inclined to initiate a conversation. _Shock_, she thought. _Uncomfortable shock, just like I feel._

Darcy had been subdued, overwhelmed by the last few hours and by the energy of so many people in his house. While always quiet, he was especially tentative in joining tonight's lively conversation. He couldn't recall the last time such a large group had gathered at this table; if dinner tonight was so boisterous, he could only imagine tomorrow, when the rest of the Bingleys and the Bennets would join them.

"Well, thank goodness for me that a piece of paper didn't determine my life," chortled Joe. "I was deferred and put on the waitlist until April, when I got accepted at Cornell. If I'd been impatient and jumped at the first acceptance letter I received, I'd never have met my dear Madeline during sophomore year."

"We were in the same class," Maddie explained. "Physics for Poets, wasn't it dear?"

Darcy's eyes drifted over to Elizabeth, who was smiling warmly at the older couple. Her gaze shifted to Jane, snuggled against Charles, and her face softened. She must have felt his stare for she suddenly looked up and over at him. Her smile slowly faded and she looked away. He cringed inside. _Now what?_

He was thankful for the distraction provided by the children, who were thrilled to eat outside under the lanterns on the sprawling deck and pretend that the sound of the evening tide was actually the threatening crash of impending doom from asteroids and shark attacks. Their whispers and giggles had finally escalated to a mock battle with their imaginary beachside foes.

"I hope you don't mind their exuberance, Mr. Darcy," Maddie said.

His eyes widened and he flushed. "Fitzwilliam, please. Or call me Darcy, as Charles prefers. All right?" He smiled when Maddie nodded. "Honestly, I envy the children their imaginations and sense of adventure. Not to mention their energy. I'm flagging a bit."

"Such an old man," Charles scoffed. Then he reminded the adults to prepare well for the next day's water fight. "We might want to keep my sisters out of the crosshairs," he mused.

Jane shared a bit more about their plans for the family weekend. While both of their mothers had declined the invitation, neither she nor Charles seemed terribly upset that the mothers-in-law to-be wouldn't meet until the wedding. Elizabeth wondered just what the thrice-widowed Mrs. Pamela Bingley-Smathers-Hatch might be like as a mother-in-law. Complicated, at the very least.

"Oh honey, we'll make sure they're both invited to the bridal shower. Sylvia is always so busy," Maddie said quietly, "but I'm sure your mother will want to be there, Charles."

He laughed. "Not if my sisters are in charge." Then he frowned and looked from Jane to Elizabeth. "They won't be in charge, right?" he said plaintively. "The best man is in charge of the bachelor party, so isn't the bridal shower the job for the maid of honor?"

Elizabeth smirked. "I don't know. Playing bingo and making hats out of ribbons versus hiring male strippers for the bachelorette party….Maybe I should ask the twins which they'd rather be in charge of."

Jane gasped. "Now, Lizzy…."

"Don't worry, Janey," Elizabeth said primly, raising her wine glass. "All of your 'lady parties' are safe with me." Her sister and Charles exploded in hysterical laughter.

"Lizzy! The children!" Maddie admonished, while giggling.

Darcy found himself laughing as well. He hadn't seen this bawdy side of Elizabeth Bennet in a very long time. He'd worried that she was less than happy about her role as maid of honor if he was best man and had thought it prudent to ask Charles if he was sure about choosing him to stand up with him. She hadn't seemed displeased that he was there, sitting down the table from her, but at least until this moment, she'd been quieter than he recalled. She'd smiled and laughed and teased her cousins, but hadn't initiated any conversation nor added much to what was said around the table. Of course, he knew he hadn't either. Thank goodness for Charles and his giddy, non-stop patter. Two drinks and the man turned into a veritable vaudeville act.

"Time for dessert, kids. Now tomorrow, we're doing make-your-own sundaes, but for tonight, who's up for ice cream cake?"

Charles and Jane each picked up a few dishes and headed to the kitchen. Darcy started to get up but Maddie put her arm on his and patted it. "You stay here. I think Charles wants to do the heavy lifting."

She picked up a few plates and set them on a tray and glided inside. They could hear her cry out, "Stop it, you two! There are innocent children outside!" Peals of laughter followed and music came on.

"Going to the chapel and we're gonna get married…. Going to the chapel of love…." They could hear Charles singing. Darcy and Elizabeth both rolled their eyes and suddenly each noted what the other had done.

"Tell me Charles didn't program a weekend playlist full of doo-wop wedding-themed songs?" Elizabeth laughed.

Darcy smiled. "Um, we might be in trouble there. He found my mother's record collection a couple of years ago and he's programmed all of it into his phone."

He noted the incredulous look on Elizabeth's face. "Don't worry. She wasn't a doo-wop fan."

Elizabeth returned his smile. He'd been quiet during dinner. She assumed he was overwhelmed by the high volume of her family. Her own nervous jokes, her tongue loosened by two glasses of wine, probably didn't help. She sat quietly as the music faded, and knew she should say something. Soon.

She was saved when Maddie emerged from the house shaking her head and laughing. The strains of Roxy Music's "More Than This" followed her through the doorway. Joe rose from the table, bowed and extended his hand and began dancing with his wife.

"Ew!" Alex cried. "Love-dovey junk." He and his sister began doing slow-motion ballet moves.

Elizabeth smiled at the dancers and looked past them, up to the stars. She could hear the waves, just a little, under the music. She sighed and drew up her knees, hugging them to her chest.

"It's beautiful here, Fitzwilliam."

_Fitzwilliam? _Stunned, he looked over at Elizabeth. She was still staring up at the stars, her head moving slowly back and forth to the music. _She looks so lovely._

"I'm glad you like it," he said softly. "It's my favorite place."

~~%~~

A few minutes after the Gardiners had herded their tired children upstairs to bed, Charles stood up and lowered the volume on the outdoor speakers. He swayed as Mazzy Star's "Fade Into You" came on.

"I really should've been a deejay. I make the best mixes," he boasted, swaying along for a few seconds. He took a bow and chucked another log onto the firepit.

"Careful, Charles. Sparks are flying," Darcy said.

Charles sat back down on the double chaise and pulled Jane closer. "Ooh-la-la, you think I haven't noticed?" he replied, waggling his eyebrows at his fiancée.

"Ugh, you guys are gross," Elizabeth grumbled. "At least try to behave in polite company? I'd hate to stumble over discarded clothing."

"Oh Liz, you've no sense of romance. You know what, Janey?" he asked.

"What, dear?"

"We have too many boring single friends in New York. Did the mayor ban dating and romance along with Slurpees?"

"Certainly did. It was on his list with trans fats and public smoking," Darcy commented, a wry smile on his face.

"Good thing he's gone. I bet he'd have gone after buskers and karaoke bars next. Ooh…_scary noise pollution_," Charles guffawed.

Elizabeth laughed and wondered if Charles was always "on" for a group. Ava and Alex adored him, and he'd even won over Lydia and Mary. She shuddered, wondering how Sylvia would react to his open, good-natured, puppy-dog personality.

_Coco_. _Oh no._ She needed to say something to Darcy.

The very proper English voice of the man she'd just been thinking about interrupted Elizabeth's thoughts.

"Are you cold? May I get you a sweater?"

"What? No. No, thank you." Elizabeth looked up from the flames to see him leaning close to her.

"All right," he said, sitting back in his chair and feeling completely ridiculous. "You shivered."

"Did I?"

A bit of scuffling and giggling caught their attention. Charles announced it was officially hot tub hour. "You two are welcome to join us, but um, we might not be wearing anything."

"Charles!" Jane swatted his arm.

"No more alcohol for that one," Elizabeth scolded, before noticing that her sister appeared just as blurrily happy as Charles did.

"Jane, please make sure the poor boy puts on a floatie or some water wings," Darcy said dryly. "He doesn't look terribly sentient to me."

The blissful couple stumbled off, leaving behind the uncomfortable pair watching their retreating backs.

"They're disgustingly happy," Elizabeth groused, smiling. She picked up her wine glass and sighed.

"They're perfect for each other. From the first minute they saw each other." Darcy shifted in his chair. Love and romance were not the best topics for the two of them. Especially when Nirvana's "All Apologies" came on.

_Oh geez. Let's be real literal, shall we?_ Elizabeth thought. She closed her eyes, screwed up her courage and turned toward him.

"Fitzwilliam, I'm so sorry about Coco. I hadn't realized—, I mean, I don't know the whole story. But you were so sweet with her and I know she was important to you."

Darcy looked up from the fire and met her gaze. "She was. Thank you. Your note, the one you sent, was very thoughtful. And much appreciated." His voice drifted off. He bit his lip and glanced off toward the beach.

Elizabeth took a last sip of wine and stared at him._ The note I sent in reply to your letter. I wonder if there's any humble pie in that kitchen? How do I tell him how little I remember about that night? _She grimaced_._

"Well, it's just—. I mean, it was the very least I could do. The thing is," Elizabeth acknowledged quietly, "I don't really remember what—."

She made the mistake of glancing over at him. His attention was fixed on her. The flickering firelight softened his expression, deepening the planes of his cheekbones and brightening his eyes. Listening to the music, staring at him, Elizabeth lost her train of thought. _His mother was a model? I wonder if he looks like her?_

"What?" he said, wondering why she seemed so lost, so distracted. "You don't remember what?"

Elizabeth blushed, embarrassed. "Um, calculus," she said offhandedly. "My mother's birthday, what I need at the grocery store." _What we talked about that night at Netherfield. That night._

Darcy watched as various emotions swept over her face. _She doesn't remember Netherfield. Or she remembers it wrongly. I think._ "Memory is a tricky thing," he said carefully. "We repress some memories, change others."

Silently he pleaded for her to look at him.

She looked up and smiled a bit. "Yes. The painful ones."

_Netherfield is painful for her? _He swallowed and looked away as the first notes of "Still Crazy After All These Years" floated in_. _

"Oh, I love this song," she said. "Sylvia, my mother, used to sing it all the time."

"Mine too," he said, nodding.

"Really? Oh, Charles made this mix from her music, right?"

He looked off past her and smiled wistfully. "She loved Tim Buckley, Dylan, Donovan, James Taylor….all the singer/songwriters. She loved the vulnerability of their voices, the imperfection of their singing. No studio fakery, no disguise of any sort. You know the stanza, in the middle, how his voice strains?"

"Oh my god," Elizabeth said, grinning with delight. "The sweet spot."

"Yes," he said eagerly, nodding. "I'll listen to the whole song just for that moment."

They sat quietly for a minute, listening. Waiting. He held up a finger and they both unconsciously leaned forward a bit as the song neared that moment.

Suddenly a car door slammed and a shrill voice cried "Helloooo!"

The Bingley sisters had arrived twelve hours ahead of schedule.


	11. Chapter 11

_More at Pemberley. Other than the wet t-shirt and the presence of the entire Bennet clan, we are pretty much following canon here. _

Chapter 11

Perhaps she'd watched too many Looney Tunes cartoons as a child and the comic images were too deeply implanted in her brain. Because even now, at 24, Elizabeth could almost see the iron anvil fall on Darcy's head when he grimaced in pained shock upon hearing Caroline's voice.

"Yoo-hoo! We're here!"

"Bloody hell."

The stunned look on Darcy's face likely matched her own. From behind her, Elizabeth heard frenzied splashing and cursing.

"For god's sake, Caroline. How about letting us know that you're showing up early?"

"Shut up, Charles. Put some clothes on," Caroline snapped. "You're fouling Darcy's hot tub!" After a long pause and some more splashing, her voice was heard again. "Oh Jane, hello! I didn't see you there," Caroline cooed, her voice suddenly dripping with sweetness.

A minute later, Jane emerged from around the corner, a towel and a blush enveloping her. Darcy rose and pulled a blanket from the teakwood box near the doorway. Jane took it gratefully and sank into a chair next to her sister.

"Caroline and the Hursts are here," she said flatly.

"Seriously? They didn't even call?" Elizabeth questioned. "You had no warning?"

Charles wheeled around the corner. Elizabeth, again in cartoon mindset, thought she saw steam shooting out of his reddened ears.

"She knows you're here, Darcy. She talked to Marc this afternoon and found out you weren't coming back to the city for the party."

Darcy scowled. Elizabeth looked quizzically at him and then at Charles. Her future brother-in-law sat down next to Jane and put his arm around her. "Marc Michaud runs Darcy's companies in Europe," he explained in an irritated tone. "He's hosting a garden party on Sunday. Caroline decided to skip it and come here."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. _His companies in Europe? _

"How'd she get herself invited to his party, anyway?" Charles grumbled.

"She ingratiated herself with Marc's wife. Marie-Laure loves theater and Caroline has connections with a ticket agent." Darcy said, looking miserable. He pulled out his phone, clicked a few buttons and stared at the screen. "The car's fixed," he said quietly.

"You can't leave now, Darcy. All for one and one for all, right?" Charles said.

Elizabeth, looking at the group slumped around the firepit, stifled a giggle. All eyes fell to her and she cleared her throat. "Sorry."

"What is it, missy? What's so funny?" Jane demanded.

"Well, besides the fact that you and Charles look like sad, wet bunnies," she replied, "it's the sweetly serendipitous soundtrack. Listen."

"…_but the fever's gonna catch you when the bitch gets back…"_ Elton John's voice chugged out of the speakers.

Charles burst out laughing. "I truly am a brilliant deejay. Master of mix tapes."

Jane shivered. "You know she's going to head out here soon."

Darcy looked up from his phone. "Sorry, if I hadn't canceled on Marc's party, she wouldn't be here. I should greet them, hmm?" He looked mournfully at Charles.

"Absolutely not," Charles snapped. "I'm the host here. Go to bed or go hide in your study. You've had a long enough day. And remember to lock your door."

Darcy shook his head. "It's not that bad, Charles, but I appreciate the reprieve. And it has been a rather long day. I'll just duck into my study and do some e-mails." He looked at Elizabeth and his voice softened. "Did you see the house? Please make use of the library; I'm afraid the books get a bit lonely as _most_ of my guests," he shot Charles an amused glance, "neglect to darken its doorways."

Elizabeth thanked him and watched him wander into the house. _The unknowable, continually surprising Mr. Darcy._

"I won't let my sister chase him out of his own house," Charles said flatly.

Jane squeezed his arm. "We outnumber her, right Lizzy?"

Elizabeth gave her a weak smile and nodded.

"I need a shower," Jane murmured.

"Same," said Charles.

They stood to leave. "Hey Liz," Charles said. "Thanks for being here this weekend. We need you on our team," he added, waggling his eyebrows.

_He looks like a half-drowned Pepe Le Pew_, Elizabeth mused. She blushed and waved them away before heading off to explore the library. It was quiet, the silence broken only by the sound of the waves lapping the beach, drifting in the open windows. The walls were lined with shelves, teeming with books. She walked over and peered at the titles. Art books, histories, biographies, Hemingway and Lessing, Austen and Chandler, Irish poets, and every author she could think of from 1800 through 2000 or so. She ran a finger across the spines. Nothing too recent, she realized. Elizabeth pulled out one of her own favorites, John Cheever's short stories; the name "_Property of_ _A.E. Fitzwilliam_" was written by hand on the inside cover. She held it a little more carefully.

Elizabeth's gaze traveled to the fireplace, stacked with logs and ready for cold-weather use. The shelves around it held photographs rather than books. She moved closer and stared at the black and white pictures of the Darcy family. A smiling toddler holding a conch next to his ear. The same wavy-haired boy, older and solemn-faced, wearing a school blazer and standing beside a ruddy-faced man in his fifties. A beautiful, dark-eyed woman holding a baby. A gangly adolescent and a little girl, half-buried in a pile of leaves. A gap-toothed ballerina, with a puppy beside her.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. _Was blind but now I see_. She knew two of those faces. Fitzwilliam and Coco. But she felt like an intruder, seeing bits of Darcy's family and his history, things he hadn't shared with her. But he _had_ urged her to go to the library, right? He'd known she'd see all of this. A small thought crept in. _Maybe he wants me to see him_. She smiled. _He has his mother's eyes and his father's hair_. Her eyes stung when she looked again at Georgiana, her existence finally made real. She wished, for the umpteenth time, to remember exactly what Darcy had told her about his sister, about the accident. _Could I be more stupid and insensitive?_ He'd been so sweet, sharing his house, his mother's music, his sense of humor. And now this room. He was revealing parts of himself to her. Did he want her to do the same?

Book still in hand, Elizabeth sank down into one of the sofas and stared out the window at the moon. Darcy was right. No one else wandered in. No one at all.

The object of her thoughts stayed hunkered down in his study, staring at his laptop, his attention instead focused on the events of the past six or seven hours. Elizabeth had been quiet, rather subdued, but then she'd begun talking and smiling and laughing, and he could swear that she had been enjoying his company. At the very least, she hadn't been avoiding it. They'd been of like mind a few times, on music and on Jane and Charles. It had been nice, and less awkward than he'd anticipated after…everything.

It might have been easier if he hadn't looked at her. If he'd been stunned by her beauty in shorts and t-shirt, summer freckles sprinkled across her nose, then he'd been made speechless at dinner. Wearing a simple sundress, she'd been absolutely breathtaking in the moonlight. He'd felt like a fish out of water, gulping for breath and stumbling over his words, especially when he'd noticed one dress strap that kept slipping off her shoulder. But Elizabeth hadn't seemed aware of his behavior, or if she had been, she hadn't teased him about it. He sank down in his chair and tried to decide whether or not that was a good sign.

He had two more days with her here, under his roof. But first he had to make it through tonight. He was grateful he didn't know which bedroom she was sleeping in.

~~%~~

Elizabeth stared at her toes and wondered why a $25 pedicure lasted less than a week. She could not have been less comfortable had she been a fly on the wall, buzzing about to avoid a swatter and rolled-up magazines.

Caroline and Louisa, both clad in designer cover-ups and swooping sunhats to protect their porcelain skin, had their lips set in matching sneers. Elizabeth wondered briefly whether they'd always looked that way or if they'd had surgical procedures to achieve those matching pouty-lipped expressions. They seemed to think of themselves as social anthropologists, picking through the actions and words of the Bennet and Gardiner clans for proof of their own intellectual and fashion superiority.

Admittedly, it hadn't taken long for the red-headed twins to strike gold in their observations of the Bennet family. The family's arrival from Queens had helped spur the end of "Charles the Wicked" and his Pirate Wars, Part One. Charles and Uncle Joe had each commandeered a dinghy, a Bennet sister, and a preteen first mate. Elizabeth had been happy to escape Caroline's company but pitied Darcy, who had been kind enough—or perhaps wary enough—to volunteer as life guard and referee, and now was saddled with Caroline and her pithy commentary. Elizabeth, on board a dinghy with Uncle Joe and Ava, had been amused to see Darcy had kept an oversized water cannon with him on the pier and that Charles—his bare chest and arms bedecked with anchor tattoos drawn by the kids—was a frequent target for "seafaring infractions of the pirate code." She rather hoped Caroline might suffer an accidental splash or two.

With less amusement, she'd noticed that Darcy kept his t-shirt on; Elizabeth remembered his scars and that he'd pulled away at Netherfield when she'd asked about them. Was he embarrassed? Shy of the sun? Cautious about her family's reaction? She'd glanced down at her leg and the long thin scar on her ankle and shin. _Can't hide that,_ she mused. A blast of water to her neck and the squeals of her newly arriving stepsisters had brought her back to reality. Quickly. She'd watched Aunt Maddie escort the Kowalski-Bennet family into the house. Just when everything seemed comfortable, she'd worried, the real shitstorm would commence.

Charles' experience with the array of water guns and Alex's dead-eyed aim finally took out Ava and Elizabeth, who dove overboard to escape the onslaught. It was a sacrifice Elizabeth had been more than ready to make; she couldn't allow her stepsisters to be alone with the Bingley twins. After lifting Ava up to Darcy, soaking him in the process, she'd headed for shore, waving off his assistance. Seeing him in a wet t-shirt was too tempting a distraction.

She was almost too late to avert the first stepsister disaster, cringing when Lydia sashayed out of the house in a skimpy thong bikini from H&M. Elizabeth prayed the cheap fabric wouldn't disintegrate in salt water. Charles quickly averted his eyes, but Elizabeth and Jane watched a suddenly wide-awake Herb Hurst ogle their sister as she skipped down to the water. Their stepmother, Barbara, looked irritated with Lydia's display but said nothing; instead she insisted on extra sunscreen for Mary, who wore an oversized men's Oxford shirt as a cover-up for her one-piece suit.

Darcy greeted her family and quickly disappeared inside. That was probably a good thing since Lydia—once she picked her jaw off the ground at the sight of him in that wet t-shirt and swim trunks_ and_ heard his voice—immediately expressed her amazement at Pemberley and its owner.

"Where'd he get that accent? It's so…cool," she said. "But I don't get it. He's rich, pretty hot…Where's the trophy wife?" she asked. "Guys like him date supermodels….and he's not even short, fat and bald like a lot of millionaires."

"He does seem a bit antisocial," Mary added, frowning. "But very, very smart."

"Might just be the accent, Mary. All hoity-toity and such. But he sure didn't set off my gaydar alarm," Lydia sniggered. She laughed off the angry look Elizabeth sent her way and speculated that "Sir Hottie" had good taste in friends. "Charles is cute and super nice. Too bad he doesn't have any brothers," she sighed. "Does Sir Hottie have any?"

Barbara shushed her daughters. "Fitzwilliam Darcy is a well-known name in New York, and he's awfully gracious to put up with all of us. Mind your manners."

Elizabeth shot Jane an encouraging smile, and they went off to the outdoor shower. The sisters returned in time to find Caroline instructing the new arrivals in all things remarkable and important about Pemberley and its owner. Their father leaned against the wall, his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised while his wife listened intently.

Suddenly she burst out laughing. "My goodness, you certainly know all things Darcy, Caroline," Barbara said. "Should we be expecting another engagement soon in the Bingley family?"

Lydia tittered, earning a glare from Caroline. "Darcy darling and I are simply good friends, _very _close friends," Caroline asserted. "We know _everything_ about each other."

"Friend with benefits, you think?" Lydia whispered loudly to Mary. Caroline narrowed her eyes even more.

Jane clutched Elizabeth's hand, leaning close to whisper, "Do not leave them unattended again!" She steered the conversation onto safer ground, asking about the drive out from Queens. Lydia rolled her eyes while Ted Bennet rambled on about the Hobson's choice he'd faced: allowing a 16-year-old to drive or ceding her control over the radio dial.

Darcy reappeared a few minutes later, and announced that a catered lunch would arrive shortly. Charles stepped over and spoke to him quietly, but Darcy just patted him on the back and muttered, "Don't worry about it. You're back on barbecue duty tonight." He looked up at everyone else. "I apologize that Pemberley and its kitchens are understaffed for the weekend. The housekeeper here is at her niece's wedding in Panama, and Alice Reynolds, my New York assistant, is attending to family issues. We've set up catering, however, and the rooms will be cleaned and the beds made." He smiled briefly and wandered back into the house.

His unease in her family's company was unmistakable. Elizabeth envied Darcy his escape from her family while despising him for doing so; she was annoyed with herself for wanting to do the same thing. She followed him into the kitchen where she found him staring into a cupboard.

"Um, do you need help with anything?" she asked.

"What?!" he turned around quickly, knocking his forehead against the edge of the cupboard door.

_Oh crap._ "I wondered if you needed any help. Are—, are you okay?"

"Fine, fine," he said tersely, his face bright red. It wasn't from the sun, Elizabeth knew.

"Um, okay," she said awkwardly. "Well, please let me or Jane know what we can do." She headed back outside, wondering if either of them would ever feel comfortable around the other.

~~%~~

_Idiot._ Darcy held a bag of frozen peas to his head and winced. _Just snap at her. Lovely way to show her what a gentleman you are._

He was so tired, exhausted really, of holding himself in and trying to maintain some semblance of control around Elizabeth Bennet. _Strike that—Elizabeth Bennet in a bikini. Sweet Jesus._ He'd barely slept, knowing she was in a bedroom just down the hall, and he'd just spent an eternity today trying not to look at her and completely lose it on the dock, next to Caroline Bingley. It was the sweetest of nightmares…Elizabeth had a beautiful body. Stunningly athletic and fit. He'd stared at her through his sunglasses but kept his mind occupied on anything else. He'd even hopped in the water once or twice to keep his temperature down. He wanted to talk to her, to ask her if she'd enjoyed the library, if she'd found anything to read. He'd barely been able to stop himself from joining her in there last night, but he'd fought his impulses; he'd told her that no one would bother her. So how could he, the one person in this house who'd inspired her anger and vitriol, impose on her, just when they seemed to be inching toward some kind of…détente? Ease? Tentative friendship? Whatever it was they had established at dinner, he couldn't risk ruining it.

And then her family had arrived and he could see how uncomfortable she was with them. He was uncomfortable too; all he could think about was unwrapping her from that damp towel.

~~%~~

Thanks to the Gardiner children's chatter, things seemed a bit calmer around the lunch table. Mary ate slowly and talked rarely, as her attention was absorbed by what she referred to as her eighth annual reading of "The Hobbit." While Herb answered every question Lydia could muster about Big Pharma and whether "Breaking Bad" was based on a true story, his pregnant wife chewed on cheese and crackers and stared at Ava and Alex, seemingly fascinated yet repulsed by their every word. Caroline did all she could to ignore the two towheads and instead focused on expounding again on her knowledge of Pemberley.

"How many bedrooms does this house have?" Barbara asked.

"Nine," Caroline replied. Barbara looked at Darcy, his mouth opened to respond, and he nodded curtly.

"That's a weird number," Lydia said.

Mary looked up from her well-thumbed book. "Interesting," she murmured. "Lots of meanings in that number."

"Nine, indeed. As in Dante's nine circles of hell?" said Ted. "Let's see," he said, eyeing the table speculatively, "we have limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, wrath…."

"Dad!" Jane shrieked. Elizabeth smacked his arm. "Enough." She'd seen him eyeing Herb when he'd said gluttony and she was pretty sure he'd glanced at Charles when he'd said lust.

"But girls, I haven't gotten to heresy, violence, fraud, treachery…."

Charles cleared his throat. "Nine men on a baseball team, wasn't it Darcy?" he said.

Darcy, who'd spent the meal seated across from an especially dry Ted Bennet, nodded. "Grandfather Fitzwilliam was a bit eccentric. He liked odd numbers."

"Did you play baseball?" Joe asked.

"No, I spent my youth in England playing cricket and football. Er, soccer," he amended, as Lydia began an outburst. Darcy shook his head. "And no, I didn't know Beckham." Lydia scowled.

Ted narrowed his eyes. "No sport of kings?"

"I—," Darcy started to reply.

"Polo? Ha. Darcy only rides for fun," Charles said. "He took a bad fall once. Mallet to the knee, was it?" Charles leaned forward and in a stage whisper, announced to the table, "Just between us, I think horses are the only animals that don't like him."

"Charles, it was simply a high-strung gelding having a bad day. I ride at Netherfield," Darcy said, amused and shaking his head. "Oh, never mind, I should let my biographer explain." He stood up and walked over to the sideboard to retrieve another pitcher of lemonade for the table.

"Oh, it's true," Jane said. "He's very good with animals."

Elizabeth glanced up and noticed he was blushing as he walked back to the table. Her eyes were caught by the bandages he had on two fingers, probably from the tire-changing fiasco. His forehead sported a red bump from the cupboard door, and he had a scrape and a bruise on his knee. _Oh my god. He's a klutz._

Her attention was diverted by her father. Ted cleared his throat and took a sip of iced tea. _Uh-oh_, thought Elizabeth. _He's in ivory tower mode._

"So, Mr. Darcy," he said slowly. "I understand you graced our fine University of Meryton football stadium with your presence last fall."

"Erm, yes. Charles and I attended a game." Darcy's tan paled a bit.

"That's where we met your daughters, Mr. Bennet," Charles said, beaming at Jane.

"And you enjoyed yourselves?" asked the older man.

Charles took a large bite of fruit salad and nodded. A shrug and a kiss to Jane's cheek completed his answer.

Ted, a Cheshire cat smile gracing his lined face, stared at Darcy. "You too, Mr. Darcy? Despite all the plebeian accoutrements, like orange hats, sweatshirts, and fan paraphernalia?"

_Dammit_. Elizabeth wanted to strangle her father. And kick herself for her loud complaints last fall about the snobby Brit who complained about American football fans.

Darcy met the older man's eyes and gave him a crisp nod. "Despite all the years I've lived in America, it was my first visit to a big college football game. It was an enriching experience, especially for our happy couple here, but one that I too enjoyed." He reached for his own glass and took a long sip of lemonade.

Uncle Joe, who'd been watching the exchange, leaned over and asked Darcy about a model ship he'd spotted in one of the bedrooms. Darcy explained a bit of Fitzwilliam family lore and the two men settled into a discussion of Horatio Hornblower novels.

Elizabeth said a silent prayer of thanks for her observant, always thoughtful uncle. Growing up as the younger brother of Sylvia Gardiner had given him a thick skin and a watchful demeanor, as well as a healthy sense of humor.

"What?!" Jane gasped.

Elizabeth glanced at her sister, suddenly pale and with a horrified expression on her face.

"I said, your mother—Sylvia—should be calling in a few minutes." Ted looked at Elizabeth. "She wants to say hello to Jane and Charles."

"Of course," Elizabeth replied, her face red. She stood up and started stacking up dishes. "I'll get started on these."

Darcy watched her disappear and wondered if the mention of her mother had embarrassed her. He stood up and grabbed a few empty glasses and followed her to the sink. He handed her a glass and she gasped. "Are you bleeding?"

He looked at his fingers and sure enough, blood was seeping out of one bandage. Darcy pulled it off, grimacing and looked at the red, swollen cut.

Elizabeth grasped his hand and peered at his finger. "Oh my god, that's from changing the tire?"

He nodded.

"Did you put anything on that?" she said. "You need some antibiotic ointment and a clean bandage. Are they in the powder room?"

Despite all of the out-of-control teenage hormones surging through his body as she gently held his hand, Darcy felt about seven years old. "Yes, Dr. Bennet."

Elizabeth led him to the powder room and sat him down on the small bench inside while she dug out first-aid supplies. She crouched in front of him and began cleaning his cuts. The hydrogen peroxide elicited a sharp intake of breath. "You can dish it out but you can't take it, Nurse Darcy?" she teased. She felt him stiffen and she froze. _Nurse Darcy. Did I really say that?_

"I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "Thank you, Elizabeth."

She managed to finish as soon as possible without any further embarrassing references to their past. He smiled softly and suggested they leave the rest of the kitchen cleanup to the caterers.

"Maybe Lydia can assist," she suggested. "She has endless energy to burn off…."

He headed back to the kitchen to cue the catering staff, and when Elizabeth emerged outside a few minutes later, she found the families scattered around the pool. The kids were in the shallow end, not yet allowed to swim on their full stomachs, but permitted to play with boats and Barbies while their parents looked on. Louisa and Herb gave the appearance of napping under a giant umbrella. Caroline was talking quietly with Jane. Ted had his nose in a book; Barbara was applying sunscreen to Mary's neck.

Lydia, buds in her ears and iPhone in her hand, was swaying around the deck. She watched Darcy sit down in a chaise, pull out his phone and begin checking his email. She walked over and plopped down next to him. "Hey um, Darcy?" she said, pulling out one earbud. "Are you allergic to the sun like my dad and Mary and the redheads?"

He looked at her, confused.

"Your shirt? I mean, seriously, you don't look like you have anything to hide."

"Lydia Kowalski-Bennet! Mind your manners!" Barbara shouted.

"You people can't take a joke. Sorry," Lydia said to Darcy through gritted teeth. She stomped off and sprawled out next to Mary on an oversized chaise. Jane leaned over to her and said something quietly; Lydia shot her a questioning look and then, noticing the stern, vexed face of Caroline Bingley, huffed and sat up.

Elizabeth looked over at Darcy. He was still staring at his phone, his face flushed but blank. _Always under assault, isn't he?_ she thought. She walked over and sat down next to him. She felt him stiffen and immediately regretted her decision.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled. "Lydia was born without a filter and good or bad, it all comes out."

Her arm was resting against his and he couldn't think straight. All he'd heard was "sorry." He swallowed and put his phone down. "It's fine," he said softly. "I don't usually think about it, but with the children here," he nodded toward Ava and Alex, "I thought it best not to prompt questions about…." He looked at her carefully and lowered his voice. "Do you remember, I have—there are a few scars on my shoulders?"

Prompted by an impulse she couldn't regret, Elizabeth squeezed his wrist. "Yes, I know. I'm sure they're not so terrible that you couldn't explain them away with some tale of a pirate battle," she said. _Okay, that sounded incredibly insensitive and stupid_.

"Yes, that could work," he admitted wryly.

"I'm just sorry you can't be comfortable in your own home."

"Is it so obvious I'm not good in large groups?" he asked, gracing her with a small smile.

"Seeing as how you run a multinational corporation and do all these big and important things, I'd guess it depends on the makeup of the 'large group,'" Elizabeth joshed. She pretended not to notice that she was still gripping his wrist.

He laughed softly. "This is a nice, energetic gathering," he stated. "But as with any business meeting, I think it best to keep my shirt on."

"Well, there you go. Another sound business decision," Elizabeth said lightly. "I see why you're in charge of such big, important stuff." She looked up and saw that Jane and Charles were watching them. So was Caroline, wearing a pinched, calculating expression under her gigantic hat. Elizabeth wondered if the woman had noticed that Darcy had only extended her the cool politeness due to any houseguest—nothing more. Elizabeth stood up and walked over to the pool; she sat down on the edge and dangled her legs into the water.

"Eliza, whatever happened to that well-built man who was squiring you about town a month or two ago?" Caroline purred. "Or that other one, the biker?"

Elizabeth flushed. "Those were friends, business acquaintances, Caroline. I'm sorry—I didn't realize you wished for an introduction."

Caroline's expression shifted from calculating to angry.

"Lizzy, when is that book with all the hunky jocks coming out?" Lydia cried. "I can't believe you never let me meet the hotties, just that lunkhead who came for Christmas Eve."

"It was scheduled to hit the stores for Father's Day sales but now it looks like September," Elizabeth frowned.

"Well, that will definitely affect its sales prospects, won't it, dear?" Ted commented.

"It couldn't be helped," Jane said, her eyes gazing thoughtfully at Elizabeth.

"Did you miss your deadline, Eliza? Or compromise your sources?" Caroline giggled.

"No, but wouldn't that be rich?" Elizabeth replied coolly. "Even in our digital age, a long-scheduled press run can be delayed when a fading movie star suddenly dies or a boy-toy singer and his popstar girl break up. You can put the blame squarely on the public's demand for cheaply compiled tell-all biographies."

"And capitalism and greed," Mary intoned balefully.

"Ah, so that's what made you angry enough to write that other book, is it?" Ted asked, chuckling quietly.

Even the eyes that had not been focused on Elizabeth shifted onto her. "I'm not angry," she said.

"Yeah, who cares about a bunch of commies?" Lydia asked. "Why are you writing that anyway?"

"You're writing a book about _communists_?" Caroline said. She sounded as though she'd just smelled something bad.

"Damn reds. Socialized medicine will ruin scientific inquiry," Herb huffed.

"Well, Lizzy?" her father tipped his Mets cap back on his head. "You have been rather secretive. Communists? Of which variety?"

Elizabeth closed her eyes, furious that her family knew—and quite deliberately misunderstood—what she was working on. They'd been less than understanding about her desire to pursue her master's, and even her father's encouragement had waned when she'd focused on creative writing rather than Roman poetry or German philosophy.

Darcy's voice, soft and measured, broke the tense silence. "This is the book you mentioned, about the Red Scare of the 1950s, and the Hollywood blacklist?"

A bit dumbfounded by his knowledge, she turned around and looked at him and nodded. "A novel, about the effects of the American government's investigations into the private lives and long-ago decisions that affected thousands of citizens. Destroyed hundreds of lives."

Her uncle nodded grimly. "Joe McCarthy. He was a nasty piece of work."

"Oh, Lizzy, what a fascinating idea for a novel! I can't wait to read it," said Maddie.

Barbara snorted. "They went after Lucille Ball! I think her grandfather went to a meeting once, and they tracked down the records on it."

"Awful stuff," her husband agreed. Ted smiled at his second daughter. "Clever girl. Bringing home musclemen to cover up your own enigmatic interests."

Charles laughed. "Ted, I hope you're including me in among that group of Queens-bound musclemen?"

Jane squeezed his bicep. "Oh honey, those 'guns' are registered to me and me alone."

A collective chuckle went around the pool. Elizabeth looked over at Darcy and found his eyes still on her. She wasn't sure how he knew exactly what she'd been researching, but she was grateful to him for his polite, timely intervention. She smiled at him, hoping to convey that emotion, and was happy to receive a warm smile in return.

Darcy's mind was churning with so many thoughts as he stared at her. The spot on the chaise where she'd sat next to him still bore her imprint; he was sorry she'd moved away from him. He was trying to process what it meant that she remembered his back was scarred. Did she only remember what they'd _done_ at Netherfield, not what they'd talked about? Why was she so surprised he knew about her book? How soon before he could be alone with her again, and talk?

He needed to know _exactly _what she remembered from that night. Was the connection they'd made—however slight—only the result of a chemical influence? Or was it something real, but now buried under foggy memories and the hurtful words that they had hurled at each other the next day? Could they ever just clear the air, especially now, when she seemed to be hinting that she wanted to?

Ava and Alex began playing in the water with their father. Charles wandered into the house to check on the caterers, and Herb followed, curious about whether a "speck of pie" could be found.

Jane's phone chimed and she stared, frozen, at the screen before tapping it.

"Hi Mom," she said.

"Hellooo, Janiekins! How is my blushing bride?"

"Great, I'm great." Jane looked at the screen, a smile plastered on her face. Elizabeth sighed and readied for her fate. She hated FaceTime calls with Sylvia, especially with an audience; they required a high-wire performance to keep the conversation neutral and on topic. Both sisters' expressions became more pained as their mother's adopted deep-fried Southern accent filled the air.

"Show me the house, baby!" Sylvia demanded.

Jane rose and held the phone out in front of her. "Hey everyone! My mother, Sylvia Bennet-LaRue, would like to say hello. Can you all introduce yourselves?"

The Gardiners waved and splashed their greetings, Ted and Barbara smiled. Caroline, now perched by her sister, peered at the iPhone and seemed to be formulating the best response to the heavily made-up blonde chattering at them.

"Speak!" Sylvia cried. "Wait, are you the twins? Charlie's sisters?"

Louisa smiled grimly and introduced herself and Caroline.

"By gosh, you gingers are just as I pictured ya! And staying out of the sun with that naturally flaming red hair, eh? Better make sure Janey picks out bridesmaid dresses that won't clash with that color," she added, chortling.

Jane quickly moved away with the phone, holding it up for quick, desultory waves from Mary and Lydia, and descending on her sister. Jane, a pleading expression on her face, pushed the phone into Elizabeth's hand and headed off in search of Charles.

"Hi."

"Hello Lizzy. Who is that behind you?"

_Cripes_, thought Elizabeth. _Why is he still out here, not hiding like Charles and Herb? _"Um, that would be our host. The owner of the house, Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Nice. Hello, Fitzwilliam! My, that is quite a mouthful!" Tickled by her joke, Sylvia began giggling. "Oh, look at that pool. And the beach!"

Elizabeth quickly moved the camera back to her own face. "Here, I'll show you the house and find Jane so you can talk about the song you're going to sing at the wedding."

"You know, I think it's definitely going to be one of Dolly Parton's songs," Sylvia said and began singing. Elizabeth clicked off the sound as she neared the door.

_Holy mother of god, save me from this mortification._

"Here's the kitchen," she said, after turning the sound back on. She waved the camera in front of her. "And here's the sunroom, and the library, and…there's Jane!"

Her sister was in the foyer kissing Charles. Elizabeth framed the shot and headed for them, giving her mother a show of eternal love. "Here you go, Janey. Bye, see you soon."

She escaped to the media room. She needed the distraction of television or music to rid herself of the past 10 minutes of sound and images. Herb was sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, watching ESPN. Elizabeth leaned in the doorway, staring blankly at the screen and wishing she had a mother who'd found her career dreams in real estate or banking or hairdressing. _Why country music? Why Dolly Parton?_ Elizabeth worried that she might have inherited some weird gene that would flare up in middle age and send her off on some crazy inner-peace journey to Branson or India or Patagonia. Once again, she wondered how her parents' ill-fated marriage had ever begun. A man of the classics and a woman of the cornpone was not a match made to last, especially when their wedding was a last-minute affair for the sake of Jane's impending birth.

_Of course, they got along better after they'd both remarried. Twice more, for Sylvia._ Elizabeth cringed. _Maybe I have her commitment-phobic genes too._

Her inner musings were cut off when SportsCenter's breaking news logo caught her attention. A huge drug-testing cheating scandal had been unearthed, and details were just beginning to leak out. Human growth hormones and performance enhancement drugs from a lab in Atlanta had been illegally dispensed at a New Jersey clinic. She squinted at the screen, trying to read the name of the clinic. Athletica Suprema. _Oh. That's weird._ _That's the sports rehab facility where…where some of the guys in my book go for physical therapy._ _I wonder if they know any of the culprits._

Hoping to hear the news more clearly, Elizabeth looked around fruitlessly for the remote control. She moved closer to the screen and listened to the announcer detailing the depth and breadth of the scandal. College athletes, professional baseball and basketball players, even some Olympians were suspected. She sank down into a chair. The volume slowly rose and she looked up and saw Darcy holding the remote and watching her. He looked puzzled.

She turned back to the screen, where four headshots were displayed. _Oh god. Stefan._


End file.
